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I 



THE 




PREACHER’S SON. 


BY 

WiGHTMAN Fletcher Melton, A.M., 

Presideni of Florida Conference College. 



('■' MAY 1894" i 




WASH''^ 

TTTj; 




I 


Printed for the Author. 

Publishing House of the Methodist P]piscopal Church, South. 
Parbee & Smith, Agents, Nashville, Tenn. 

1804. 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1894, 
r.Y W. F. Melton, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at IVasliington. 


THIS BOOK 
IS 

AFFECTION A TEL Y DEDICA TED 
TO MY FATHER, 

I^EV. ISAAC QUimBY mEIiTOfl, 

Of the North Alabama Conference; 

MY MOTHER, 

PHAJ4CIS LiOOlSA mEIiTOJl; 

MY SON, 

omVEH QUimsv mEiiTOfi; 

AND TO PEE ACKERS' SONS EVERYWHERE. 


The Author. 


/ 


PREFACE. 

I remember, when I was a small boy, having said to my 
mother: “When I grow up to be a man, I expect to write a 
book and name it ‘The Preacher’s Son,’ ” I have kept my 
promise except that I named the book and then wrote it. 

Some of the scenes, events, and thoughts are taken from my 
own life. A few of the names are family names. 

I have carefully avoided exaggeration, and whatever of fiction 
there is in the book could be real under favorable circumstances. 

If this work is appreciated by preacher’s sons and all their 
kinsfolk, I shall be satisfied. Of course I sincerely trust that it 
may please, instruct, and profit those into whose hands it may 
fall. WiGiiTMAN F. Melton. 

Florida Conference College, Leesburg, Fla,, April, 1S94. 


( 7 ) 


INTRODUCTION. 

This is a new book by a new autlior. That is one reason why 
the announcement that it was in press was received by me 
with friendly curiosity. A first book may be a failure, a blight- 
ed blossom that perishes at once, or the precursor of ripeness 
and productiveness in the future. 

That it is the work of a preacher’s son gives it another claim 
on my attention and good wishes. Preachers’ sons are usually 
very much like other men’s sons, but a study of them with ref- 
erence to their peculiar environment ought to possess special 
interest to the student of human life. There is a freshness and 
frankness about these pages that will not fail to strike the ap- 
preciative reader. 

My pei*sonal acquaintance with the author enhances the in- 
terest I feel in his book. He is as sunny of soul as a cloudless 
Sunday in Florida, as transparent as the waters of Silver Spring 
or Waukullah at midday. 

This is enough. Give the “ Preacher’s Son ” a friendly greet- 
ing. O. P. Fitzgeeald. 

San Francisco, March 22, 1894. 


( 9 ) 



CONTENTS. 


Chapter I. page 

Hiri Birth 15 

ClIAl’TEK II. 

His Parents 19 

Chapter III. 

“ You Just Must See Our Baby” 26 

Chapter IV. 

The Time Appointed for Naming Him 30 

Chapter V. 

He Is Named 34 

Chapter VI. 

His First Illness. 42 

Chapter VII. 

Father’s Victory and Granddaddy’s Boy 49 

Chapter VIII. 

Crying to Join the Conference 54 

Chapter IX. 

The Preacher’s Son Beats the Presiding Elder Eating 
Chicken 48 

Chapter X. 

Boy liood —His First School 65 

Chapter XI. 

Coals of Fire on Two Heads 71 

( 11 ) 


12 THE PHEACHEH’B SON. 

ChAPTEB XII. PAGE 

Big Ups and Little Downs 76 

ClIAPTEH XIII. 

His Conversion 80 

Chaitek XIV. 

Did He Fall from Grace? 84 

Chapter XV. 

A Crowded Vehicle 90 

Chapter XVI. 

“Buddie, You Are Too Good for Us ” 93 

Chapter XVII. 

A Dead Boy 96 

Chapter XVIH. 

Getting Ready for the Camp Meeting 101 

Chapter XIX. 

On the W ay to Camp Meeting 106 

Chapter XX. 

At the Camp Meeting Ill 

Chapter XXI. 

Attempt at Sermon Writing 116 

Chapter XXII. 

A Christmas Eggnog 122 

Chapter XXIII. 

An Ugly Fight 127 

Chapter XXIV. 

Comments on the Fight 132 

Chapter XXV. 

Enoch Forced to Act as Steward 136 


CONTENTS. 13 

Chapter XXVI. PAGE 

“ Here’s One the Old Man Gave Me ” 144 

Chapter XXVII. 

Called on to Pray in Public 149 

Chapter XXVIII. 

Sweethearts and Sweet Mothers 154 

Chapter XXIX. 

Coals of Fire in His Mouth ICO 

Chapter XXX. 

Preacher’s Sons and Other Sons 166 

Chapter XXXI. 

Two Angels 171 

Chapter XXXH. 

“ How Shall I Spend So Much Money ” 178 

Chapter XXXIH. 

College Life 184 

Chapter XXXIV. 

Asking for the Girl 189 

Chapter XXXV. 

Marriage 195 

Chapter XXXVI. 

Three Later Events 197 





THE PREACHER’S SON. 


CHAPTER L 

HIS BIRTH. 

A PEEACHEE’S son is the meanest boy in the 
world.” Many have made this assertion. Some 
people actually believe it. I give it as my candid 
opinion, to begin with, that many of the preachers’ 
sons have enough to endure without the addition of 
such an unenviable taunt. 

Friend, let’s you and me, for the sake of pleasure 
and the hope of profit, sit here awhile and talk about 
this preacher’s son. 


Mid the undulating mist of the folded shadows of 
the beautiful Cumberland Mountains there once stood 
a rude log cabin, that cabin the birthplace of “ the 
preacher’s son.” 

From the piercing north thick clouds have been 
ascending all the day, and now as night draws near 
a fleecy shower begins to fall and wrap the work of 
man in flakes of purest white. The hoarse wind is 
wailing piteously, and as its howl lengthens the lit- 
tle cabin trembles and the waves of wind sweep on. 
A genial fire on the open hearth cheers the narrow 
hut and its anxious inmates. 

Magnificent and deep the night wears on. The 
stars are mufiled in the lowering cloud and the dim 

( 15 ) 


16 


THE PREACHEB’S SON. 


and solitary moon, through her drowsy veil, views 
the dark brow of night. 

Simultaneous with the crowing of the cock for 
midnight a robust young gentleman plants foot on 
this mundane sphere and gives a yell which sounds 
too much like business to be a picture of the imagi- 
nation. Yes, another preacher’s son is born, and the 
old village surgeon, drawing on his greatcoat, weath- 
er hat, and leggings, turns the button at the door, but 
hesitates to say: “I hope the young ‘bishop’ will do 
well.” Then out he went into the dark night, leav- 
ing in the once lone but now cheerful cot Eev. and 
Mrs. Gladys with their firstborn, and Sisters Phillips 
and Scroggins, who just happened to “ drap in ” the 
evening before to see how everything was “earning 
on.” 

For some minutes not a word was uttered. Rev. 
Gladys sat in the corner, his chin resting on his 
clinched fists, his eyes fixed on the glowing coals, and 
he trying with all his might to realize that he was 
himself. 

Presently Sister Scroggins broke the stillness by a 
long drawn out: “Brother Gladys, I hain’t never 
seed a chile more exac’ly like hits paw than yourn 
is.” To which Sister Phillips added: “Yes, hit is, 
only hits little nose looks like hits Uncle Timothy’s 
pictur’, and hits little eyes is like hits maw’s, and hits 
little mouth looks like hits gran’paw’s pictur’.” 

The reply Brother Gladys gave to each was a whis- 
pered “Yes’m.” 

The two good sisters, after curling their faces into 
many quaint and curious shapes, by gaping and 
stretching, tiptoed into the little shed room and lay 


HIS BIRTH. 


17 


down to catch a morning nap. Brother Gladys 
scarcely observed their going, and remained motion- 
less, still musing as the fire burned. Soon he be- 
thought himself and lay down to dream of the sweet 
days when the burden of chopping stove wood would 
be transferred to his only son and heir. 

Scarcely had they all closed their eyes till the sen- 
tinels from the neighboring farmyards began to awake 
the dawning day. It seemed to Brother Gladys that 
he had never heard so much music in a chicken’s 
voice before. Was he dreaming? or had the chickens 
borrowed larks’ voices with which to salute the ris- 
ing sun? Our good brother only remained in this 
state of wonder for a minute when he heard a “ M’ba, 
m’ba-a, m’ba-a-a,” which fully awakened him and 
brought to his remembrance the fact that God had 
blessed him with a stout-lunged son. 

As the first gray beams of light began to peep 
through the cracks in the door, Mrs. Gladys looked 
full into the face of her innocent darling, and press- 
ing her lips to its cheek she wondered if it ever 
would be called “ the meanest boy in the world,” and 
just because its father was a preacher. 

Sisters Phillips and Scroggins, on hearing Brother 
Gladys stirring about in the “big house,” lost no 
time in appearing before the fire to warm and see 
what they could do. Sister Phillips threw some oak 
bark on the fire, to make coals while she ground the 
coffee and made the dough and prepared the oven. 
Sister Scroggins reached up to the vrooden peg on 
the wall and got her carpet sack, from which she 
brought out bunches of catnip, horsemint and black- 
berry leaves, and prepared a lot of “ yarb medisen ” 
2 


18 


THE preacher’s SON. 


with which to give the “ preacher’s son ” a start to 
growing. 

After breakfast Brother Gladys kissed his wife and 
baby; charged the good sisters to keep a glowing fire, 
even if it took every stick of wood on the place; then 
closed the door behind him, and with elastic step, 
bright heart, and cheerful face wended his way to 
the settlement shoe shop where he was a day laborer. 
(Please understand at this juncture that Brother 
Gladys was a local preacher of the Methodist Episco- 
pal Church, South.) 

On reaching the shop he procured the key to the 
old rusty padlock, which although usually trouble- 
some to unfasten, turned at a touch. Opening the 
door, he walked in, kindled a blaze in the old rock 
fireplace, swept out, and hardly realized that he was 
sweeping with a pine sage broom; pulled his work- 
bench around to the fire, and began to peg with all 
his might. Our young brother was indeed happy; 
and can we blame him? How fondly we all recall the 
time when our firstborn, like a radiant young star, 
shone into our lives and chased away all gloom. It 
is not strange that these sweet little things, fresh 
from the hand of God, should soothe weary souls and 
make redolent with love and joy the life of man. 


CHAPTEK IL 


HIS PARENTS. 



iHE Eev. Gladys little heeded the swift-winged 


-L hours, or noticed the change of sunlight or of 
cloud. While thus i^egging and meditating, a blus- 
tering knock on his shop door reminded him that 
there was somebody else in the world besides himself, 
his wife, and his son. Glancing toward the door, he 
cheerily said: “Come in.” 

The latch flew up and in walked a friendly- 
looking stranger, who introduced himself by saying: 
“ Good morning, stranger. A man over at the sawmill 
told me that this is the shoe shop, and I have called to 
have you make a pair of traces. I am moving, and 
one of my sets of harness is about to give out. You 
see we had such hard pulling yesterday in the snow 
and ice, and it’s no better to-day; in fact, it’s getting 
worse and colder. Can you make the traces?” 

“ O yes, sir,” replied Brother Gladys; “lean make 
anything that can be made of leather, but what time 


is it? ” 


The stranger replied: “Well, I don’t exactly know; 
but judging from the sun when it came out a few 
minutes ago, it must now be at least half after nine 
o’clock. How long will it take you to flnish my job ? ” 
“ Only a few hours, for I have one trace nearly 
finished, one I began the other day when I was out 
of shoe work. I am quite sure I can have you ready 
for travel by half past three o’clock.” 

“ Well, then, shoemaker, you may go to work at it. 


( 19 ) 


20 


THE preacher’s SON. 


I’ll go over to the blacksmith shop, roll my buggy 
under the shed, and get my horses out of this w-eath- 
er; then I will come back and see if I can assist you 
in any way, for I am anxious to get as far along as I 
can before the snow gets so deep that I can’t travel.” 
W ith these words the stranger closed the door behind 
him. 

Almost before the latch dropped into place Brother 
Gladys said to himself, half audibly: “ O, I do wish 
I could finish my work by twelve, for then I could 
go home and see Louise and the little man. But 
they will not look for me before sundown; and if the 
good sisters need me, they will send for me.” While 
thus meditating he unrolled a lot of harness leather 
and measured the strips, which he cut out and put into 
the tub of water; then, adjusting the edges, he put in 
two or three pegs and placed the trace in the clamp 
ready for sewing. 

By that time the traveler had returned and was in- 
vited to a seat on a box by the fire. Seating himself, 
he hurried one hand through the inviting blaze and 
threw the other up and down as though it were un- 
comfortably cold. Then he said: “Shoemaker, this 
is bad weather on a traveler, ain’t it?'” 

Brother Gladys replied: “ Yes, sir; it is pretty bad, 
but not much worse than it was this time last year, 
when I was moving here from North Alabama.” 

“ You say you are from North Alabama? ” 

“ Yes, sir; I was born and raised there.” 

“And what is your name? ” 

“ My name is Gladys.” 

“Gladys, Gladys? that name sounds familiar to 
me. What is your given name? ” 


HIS PARENTS. 


21 


“ Isaac, sir, Isaac Gladys.” 

“ Well, Mr. Gladys, if you are related to the Gladys 
family I know, they went out of the family to find 
a name for you.” 

Brother Gladys, proud to meet one who had seen 
other people of his name, now became interested, 
more in the stranger than in the trace he was making. 
Putting on a friendly air, he asked: “And what is your 
name? ” 

“ My name is Monroe, Peter Monroe. I used to 
live in South Carolina, and it was there I knew an 
old man by the name of Ansel Gladys.” 

“Ansel Gladys?” said Brother Gladys, bounding 
to his feet. “ Why he was my grandfather. He 
moved to Cherokee County, Ala., over thirty years ago. 
He was a hatter by trade, you remember, and also a 
local Methodist preacher.” 

“ Of course I remember him. I can almost see him 
now driving into Spartanburg with his little cart 
loaded with hats of all shapes and sizes. His chil- 
dren had all married off except one son, John Gladys, 
who was raised with me almost the same as if we had 
been brothers.” 

“ Why, Brother Monroe, John Gladys is my own 
father.” 

“ You don’t tell me so, Mr. Gladys. Well, well, well ; 
give me your hand; what strange things do happen 
in this world! Who ever thought that I’d meet up 
with a child of my old South Carolina playmate 
away up here in Tennessee? Where is John?” 

“ He is dead, died ten years ago, when I was only 
thirteen years old.” 

“How I wish I had kept up with my old friend 


22 


THE preacher’s SON. 


John after he left South Carolina! Poor fellow, he, 
and in fact all of us, had a hard time of it when we 
were boys. I can remember how we used to have to 
go without shoes, even in such weather as this, and 
after we were twenty years old too. We got but lit- 
tle schooling then, but John studied by night and at 
dinner time till he had considerable book learning by 
the time he was grown. The last thing I remember 
of John before he left for Alabama he was licensed 
to preach at the old Methodist camp meeting. Who 
did he marry? ” 

“He married Miss Mary Clayton, with whom he 
lived happily till the day of his death.” 

“ Well then, he didn’t marry any of the girls that 
moved from our old home when he did?” 

“ No, for some sufficient reason, of course, he wooed 
and won a daughter of a good old ferryman living on 
the Coosa River, between Gadsden, Ala., and Rome, 
Ga., somewhere near the present towns of Cedar Bluff 
and Gaylesville.” 

“ Well, well,” broke in old man Monroe, “ you have 
no idea of the good it does me to hear of my old 
friend. Did he ever join the Conference? ” 

“ No, but he did more preaching than most itiner- 
ants do at this day. I can remember when he used 
to be away from home a month at a time holding pro- 
tracted meetings and assisting the circuit rider in his 
visitings. I have heard him tell of walking from 
Ashville to the old camp ground at Chepultepec, in 
Blount County, on Saturday morning and preaching 
at eleven o’clock on the same day.” 

“That’s just like John. I knew him like a book. 
When he felt it his duty to do a thing, he called on 


HIS PARENTS. 


23 


the Lord to help him and then went at it with his 
might. Let’s see; John died before the war, didn’t 
he?” 

“ O yes, he died three years before the war broke 
out; but when his country called, three of his sons 
were found ready to go.” 

“Are you the youngest child?” 

“ No, no, I am the middle one. I have three broth- 
ers and sisters older than myself, and as many 
younger. Although I was only sixteen years old 
when the war began, I made me a fife out of a cane 
joint, and marched off to Mobile, playing ‘ Soldier’s 
Joy ’ as big as if I had been going to a corn shuck- 
ing. We, my brothers and I, pulled through and got 
back home alive.” 

“Did John remain in Alabama all his life? ” 

“Yes; he settled a place in St. Clair County 
near Ashville, and lived there all his life. This 
was the home and farm we boys left when we went 
to the war, and the farm we found when we re- 
turned.” 

“Do you mean that the home was in bad shape 
when you got back? ” 

“Yes; it was in pretty bad shape, I assure you, but 
it could have been much worse. Mother and the 
children had managed to make a living, but had in- 
curred a debt of about sixty dollars, and you know 
sixty dollars was no small sum for a poor widow to 
owe just after the war. I took my shoe tools in a lit- 
tle bag and walked up into Georgia — about a hun- 
dred miles — and found work for six months. With 
my wages I paid off mother’s indebtedness and bought 
me several yards of Kentucky jeans.” 


24 


THE TEEACHER’S SON. 


“All!” interrupted Mr. Monroe; “you mean that 
you were fixing to get married.” 

“ You are a good guesser, Brother Monroe. I came 
back home and got married that same fall, and like 
my father, I was licensed to preach just a short time 
before I married.” 

Mr. Monroe chuckled to himself and said: “Just 
what I always thought: the Gladys people are born 
to preach — the men are. Who did you marry? ” 

“ I married Louise Atkins, daughter of Bev. Enoch 
Atkins, a local Methodist preacher who lived near 
us.” 

“The idea. Let’s see; you a preacher’s son, a 
preachers grandson, a preacher’s son-in-law, and 
married to a preacher’s daughter.” 

Brother Gladys had been half crazy to tell about 
it, so, seeing the opportunity, he broke out in a 
hearty: “Yes, and the father of a preacher’s son.” 

“ That beats the world,” said Mr. Monroe. “ If ‘ a 
preacher’s son is the meanest boy in the world,’ wdiat 
is to become of your child? Let’s see; he is the 
great-grandson of a preacher, the grandson of two 
preachers and two preachers’ wives, the son of a 
preacher and— but that’s enough. I’ll wager these 
traces that your boy will be hung for murder before 
he is twenty-one, or else he will make one of the 
finest preachers that ever lined a hymn. How old is 
he?” 

Brother Gladys, as if to count the beatings of his 
own lieart, hesitated, then replied: “He is now just 
about fourteen hours, three minutes, nine and a 
quarter seconds old.” 

He amused the old man, who replied: “Allow me 


HIS TARENTS. 


25 


to congratulate you, my young brother. May the 
Lord bless you and your wife and your baby! and 
may you be spared, and guided by Divine Wisdom 
in the training of your boy, that he may grow up to 
be a useful man and a zealous Christian!” When 
Mr. Monroe had made an end of talking, he picked 
up the finished traces and, eying them with a marked 
degree of satisfaction, inquired: “How much do I 
owe you?” 

“Pshaw! don’t insult me by asking me what I 
charge for the only little favor I may ever be able to 
do for the only man I have seen in five years that 
ever knew another Gladys. Take the traces as a gift, 
and anything else you see in this shop that you need, 
take it too.” 

“No, I thank you; I can’t afford to rob a man just 
because I have known his father, but I must now 
be off.” 


CHAPTEE III. 

“you just must see our baby.” 

W HAT? can’t you go home with me and stay 
awhile with us? ” 

“ I wish it was so I could, but a part of the wagons 
went by the way of Nashville to get a supply of pro- 
visions, and I am to meet them in Murfreesboro next 
Friday evening. It is now Tuesday evening, and the 
roads are so bad, I guess I had better be going.” 

“ O Mr. Monroe, you just must see that boy of 
mine. He is the finest-looking Gladys that ever 
lived. Where are you moving to, anyway ? ” 

“I am moving to Gunter’s Landing, about halfway 
between Florence and Chattanooga, on the Tennes- 
see Eiver. I was down there last year, and I think it 
is the prettiest country I ever saw. I am going down 
there to settle and spend the rest of my days. You 
see I am already fifty-five years old, and it’s time for 
mo to quit this running about. But I must be going. 
Good-bye, my dear boy. May God bless you and 
yours, and spare you for many years, that you may 
be useful in winning lost souls unto his kingdom! ” 
Brother Gladys, with tears in his eyes, and some- 
thing that seemed choking him, only said: “Good- 
bye, and God bless you! ” 

Long and firm was that farewell grasp. Mr. Mon- 
roe hurried to the shed to put his horses to the wag- 
on, while Brother Gladys began to arrange things in 
the shop preparatory to going home; for, although it 
was only three o’clock in the afternoon, he felt that 
( 26 ) 


27 


“you just must see ouk baby.” 

he could not live another hour without going to see 
Louise and the “ Bishop.” Swinging across his arm 
his dinner bucket and a pair of shoes he had half- 
soled for Sister Scroggins’s son Bobby, he pulled 
the chain through the auger hole, put the padlock in 
place, and was just fixing to turn the key when he 
heard the rattling of wagon wheels, and, turning, he 
saw Mr. Monroe start off down the road. They spoke 
a few words as Mr. Monroe hurried along. The last 
good-bye was said. Brother Gladys stood with his 
hand on the unturned key and watched the old trav- 
eler disappear, as though some inexplainable some- 
thing had gone forever out of his life. 

Starting at the fresh recollection of the young 
“ Bishop,” he turned the key in the lock and began to 
measure paces on the mile and a half to his humble 
habitation. The snow had abated, and the north wind 
was howling and moaning amid the bending branches 
of the forest. Timid rabbits, chattering snowbirds, 
and frosty-beaked quails were startled by his footfall; 
but they did not attract his attention, for he was bent 
on something beyond. Beaching the summit of the 
last ridge, he looked down the long, frozen path to his 
“ sweet, sweet home.” He saw the smoke curling 
and wreathing from the stick and dirt chimney; he 
heard the lazy bark of his faithful watchdog, and 
realized that he was nearly home. But it did seem 
to him that his legs were never so short before. 
Jerking his hands from his pockets, he struck off 
down the hill in a sweeping trot, jumped over the 
little rail fence, and in a few seconds pulled the 
string to his cabin door, which flew open as if to 
grant him entrance. “Louise, how are you?” 


28 


THE preacher’s SON. 


‘‘Don’t talk so loud, Mr. Gladys; you’ll wake the 
baby,” were the words that came from the half-hid- 
den, luscious lips of the fair young mother. Then 
turning her face toward him and pettishly presenting 
her lips for a kiss, she continued: “I am getting 
along first-rate. I had an idea that you would come 
back to me sooner. What has kept you so long? ” 

“ Why, Louise, I have been making a pair of traces 
for a traveler who used to know my father when they 
were boys together; he told me all about — but where 
is the baby? ” 

“ O, he is over here under the cover, fast asleep.” 

“ What ? my baby covered up head and ears ? You’ll 
smother him to death. Let me have him awhile.” 
So saying. Brother Gladys took hold of the cover 
and started to raise it, when old Sister Scroggins 
jumped from her chair, seized him by the arm, 
and exclaimed: “You, Isaac Gladys, don’t you lay 
the weight of your han’ on that chile. You don’t 
know nothin’ about nussin’ younguns. You’d break 
hits little back afore you could git hit outen the bed.” 

Brother Gladys, with much reluctance, left the 
bedside, took a seat by the fire, and related the inci- 
dent of the day. Somehow the fireplace failed to 
throw out heat to suit Brother Gladys, so he stepped 
out in the yard, picked up an old tin pan, and re- 
turned to take up the ashes; but just as he took hold 
of the shovel Sister Scroggins had him by the arm 
again, and looking him “square in the face,” she said: 
“ What? Brother Gladys, air ye fixin’ to take up them 
ashes? Don’t you know hits the worst luck in the 
world to take up the ashes before a baby air three 
weeks old? ” 


YOU JUST MUST SEE OUR BABY.’ 


29 


(( 


That was something new to the young preacher, 
but he soon found it his province to obey. He 
pitched the pan out into the yard, took a seat and 
acted as a silent observer till he learned what he might 
and might not do. 

Sister Scroggins was very restless. After awhile 
she remarked: “ Miss Gladys, hain’t Miss Phillips a 
long time a-gittin’ back with that ’ere sage and life 
everlastin’? Ef she don’t git here dreckly. Brother 
Gladys must go arter the yerbs hisself, for you air 
compelled and obleeged to have some tea made outen 
them this very night.” 

While they were thus talking Sister Phillips re- 
turned, made the tea, and administered it. The baby 
woke and uttered a few shrill notes which charmed 
Brother Gladys’s ears. Supper was soon over; then 
they knelt around the family altar for a word of 
prayer, after which they all went to bed, for they 
were tired and sleepy. Sister Gladys slept peaceful- 
ly and quietly, like a Christian woman. The little 
“ bishop ” grunted and whined occasionally. Broth- 
er Gladys undertook to snore several times, but, re- 
membering that he might wake the baby, controlled 
his nose with scarcely an effort. But in that shed 
room Sisters Phillips and Scroggins, especially 
Scroggins, slept like cold-blooded demons. Such 
snoring has scarcely been heard in these latter days. 


CHAPTEE IV. 


THE TIME APPOINTED FOR NAMING HIM. 

L ET’S see, Louise; tlie baby is three weeks old to- 
day, is he not?” 

“ It seems to me that you ought to know, Mr. Gladys. 
What have you done with that piece of paper on 
which you were marking off the days since he was 
born? ” 

“I think I left it at the shop; the last time I re- 
member seeing it was when I was telling Brother 
Dodson the baby’s age. And I came near forgetting 
to tell you that Brother Dodson and Sister Dodson, 
and Brother and Sister Driskill will come over to- 
night to sit till bedtime. I told them we hadn’t 
named the baby yet, and I think they want to help us 
decide on a name. You know they have the reputa- 
tion of having named or helped to name every baby 
in this part of Tennessee for the last twenty years.” 

“ I am glad they are coming, and I am anxious for 
us to decide on a name, for I am tired of hearing peo- 
ple call my baby ‘ Dewdrop,’ ‘Honeycomb,’ ‘Dirt 
Dobber,’ ‘ Toad Frog,’ ‘ Young Gladys,’ and the like. 
I want us to name him and then call him by his right 
name, for I am sick and tired of nicknames,” replied 
Mrs. Gladys. 

“ Well, Louise, if we name him to-night, I must let 
Sister Scroggins know about it, for she would have a 
duck fit if she couldn’t be here. I don’t suppose 
Sister Phillips would have anything to say about it, 
( 30 ) 


THE TIME APPOINTED FOR NAMING HIM. 31 

hence I will not try to send word to her; it is too far 
over there anyway.” 

“ Yes, Mr. Gladys, Sister Scroggins must get the 
word if you have to take it yourself, for she said 
the other day that she had a name for him, but 
wouldn’t mention it till the proper time. I think I 
heard her call the baby ‘Ezra Washington’ when 
she was dressing him. It may be that that name is 
the one she has ‘ fixed up ’ for him, but gracious 
knows I don’t want any such name as that. What 
do you think about it? ” 

“Louise, I hardly know what to say, for I have 
had a name in my mind for him ever since he drew 
his first breath.” 

“What is your name for him, Mr. Gladys? ” 

“You know, Louise, I am a great hand to want to 
preserve family names, and I think it would be nice 
to call him ‘ John Enoch,’ after your father and mine. 
What do you think about it? ” 

“ I think it is a very pretty name, but I have been 
thinking of calling him Isaac for you, and then add- 
ing something for a middle name. But we can talk 
this over to-night. You had better watch the road for 
some one passing, and send Sister Scroggins word.” 

Before she had finished her remark they heard 
some one coming down the hill, whistling. On look- 
ing out they found it to be Sister Scroggins’s son 
Bobby, who was returning from an all-day rabbit 
hunt. They sent the message to his mother, and 
Brother Gladys proceeded to get in wood for the 
night and pine knots to make a light. 

As soon as supper was over Brother Gladys 
pushed the table back against the wall, dusted the 


32 


THE preacher’s SON. 


the ashes off of the oven lid, placed it on the oven and 
put it back out of the way ; then, accommodating his 
height to the length of the broom, he bent about 
sweeping behind the doors and under the beds, and 
in every nook and corner where it was possible to 
find trash. When he had finished, his face glowed 
with pride, for he thought everything was as nice 
as if Louise had arranged it. 

Sister Gladys was somewhat amused, but she 
thought her husband really had a right to be proud 
of his superior housekeeping qualities. 

“ Mr. Gladys, please move my chair a little back 
from the fire. You will drive me to the wall with such 
a log heap as that if you don’t mind.” 

“ O, well, Louise, there is plenty of wood, and I 
don’t mind getting it, so let’s have a good fire. You 
know Brother Driskill’s fireplace is eight feet wide, 
and they sometimes burn half a wagonload of wood 
at one fire. We just must have a good fire, so as to 
make them all feel at home.” 

“ But, Mr. Gladys, had you thought of where they 
are to sit?” I could go to bed and let one of them 
have my chair, but I’d rather sit up.” 

“That’s so, Louise; I hadn’t thought of that. Let 
me see. I can sit on the side of the bed, you can 
keep that chair, and Sister Dodson and Sister Dris- 
kill can have the other two chairs. Sister Scroggins 
can sit on our trunk, and Brother Dodson can sit on 
the end of the old shoe bench in the shed room. I can 
pull it in here and turn the end to the fire, so that it 
will not take up so much room. Brother Driskill — 
where in the world can he sit? O yes; I can take the 
dishes out of that box, and he can sit on it. If Bob- 


THE TIME APPOINTED FOR NAMING HIM. 83 

by Scroggins comes, lie can sit on the wood there in 
the corner.” Then, drawing a breath of relief. Broth- 
er Gladys added: “And the little man can occupy all 
of the bed that he wants.” 

When Brother Gladys had emptied the box safe, 
placed the trunk nearer the fire, brought in the shoe 
bench and made the other necessary arrangements, he 
took a seat to rest and think a minute. Presently there 
was a slight movement of the cover on the bed, and a 
pair of baby lungs began to scatter sweetness on the 
evening air. Brother Gladys had scarcely had time 
to hand the baby to its mother when he heard the 
crowd in the yard, and before the baby hushed they 
were all in the house. 

3 


CHAPTEE V. 


HE IS NAMED. 



ETEE a few “How d’y’s” and inquiries con- 


cerning the health of the neighborhood, and 
observations concerning the weather, they all “ took 
seats.” But they didn’t sit as Brother Gladys had 
intended they should, for Sister Scroggins dropped 
down on the old workbench with such force that the 
leather straps broke, and had it not been for her size, 
she would have gone through to the floor. Some one 
brought in a pine board and placed it across the 
bench. Brother Driskill exchanged seats with Sister 
Scroggins, and after a hearty laugh they all began to 
converse on tlie subject of baby. All except Bobby, 
who sat with his mouth wide open, as if he had never 
been anywhere before. 

One can scarcely imagine a more quaint or peculiar 
picture than that crowd presented. The room was 
walled on the inside with the same logs that were on 
the outside. The house was seven logs high; the 
logs were large, hewn poplar logs. The partition be- 
tween the big house and the shed room was made 
of rough edged lumber. The doorway into the shed 
room was closed by means of a quilt hung across from 
the top. The only window to the house was at the back 
and about halfway up the wall. The middle log had 
had two feet cut from it and the opening was closed 
by a board shutter on leather hinges, and fastened 
on the inside with a string. The only ceiling over- 


( 34 ) 


HE IS NAMED. 


head was a few stray planks scattered about on the 
top of the joists. 

The landlord, who sat on the bedside, was a good- 
looking young fellow, about twenty- three years old. 
There was not the slightest intimation of a mustache 
or beard, and from his sky-blue eyes, which were by 
no means shaded by the thin, black suit of hair, a 
few strands of which projected over his broad fore- 
head, there came a look of righteous anxiety and 
temporary bliss. 

Mrs. Gladys was a sweet little woman. Her face, 
exquisite at all times, that evening, in the bright 
glow of the firelight, looked as lovely as the petals of 
a pale, pure lily. Her bluish-gray eyes sparkled 
with pride as she looked into the face of her first- 
born and realized the depths of a mother’s love. 

The “preacher’s son,” who lacked four hours of 
being three weeks old, was a plump little being with 
a round red face, with a nose that looked as if it had 
no bone or gristle to support it, and with watery little 
specks for eyes, which had not up to that time assumed 
any definite color. 

Bobby Scroggins, who sat on the pile of wood in 
the corner, was a great, green, gawky youngster, with 
no describable feature except his mouth, which on 
that night hung lazily open as if assisting his ears. 

Sister Scroggins was a dumpy, middle-aged woman, 
whose weight, including features, was about two hun- 
dred pounds. Mr. and Mrs. Dodson were a well- 
matched pair of quiet, inoffensive, unassuming beings. 
They had lived together “ nigh onto forty year ” and 
had never bad a cross word. 

Mr. Driskill was a long, lean, lank, jovial fellow. 


36 


THE preacher’s SON. 


with long gray beard, bald head, and very large feet. 
Mrs. Driskill was a nervous, wrinkled-faced, blacks 
headed little woman, who was in the height of her 
glory when she had the opportunity of naming a 
baby, and she took special delight in naming preach- 
ers’ children. 

Eeader, I have painted this pen portrait of the 
crowd who took part in the naming of our preacher’s 
son, so that you may rejoice if the little creature got 
off with anything like a reasonably decent name. 

•‘Let me take the baby awhile. Sister Gladys,” 
said Mrs. Dodson, rising from her chair and extending 
her arms. 

“ Here he is,” replied Mrs. Gladys, tucking a shawl 
around him and handing him to Mrs. Dodson, “ but 
I fear he will weary you, for he feels like he would 
weigh twenty pounds.” 

“ What a pretty baby! ” exclaimed Mrs. Dodson as 
she took him in her arms. 

“Yes, Sister Dodson,” said Mrs. Driskill, smiling, 
“I think it is the sweetest baby I ever saw, not 
a-countin’ my little Jane, who died, you know, before 
she was a month old.” 

The men had all the time been talking about some 
appointment which they wanted Brother Gladys to 
fill once a month, but the ladies made so much noise 
over the baby that the men hushed. Mr. Driskill 
turned around, and, looking at the little fellow, 
laughingly remarked: “There is one thing certain 
about that child: he is too good-looking to ever be a 
Methodist preacher; don’t you think so. Brother 
Dotison?” 

Mr. Dodson, for fear of offending the parents. 


HE IS NAMED. 37 

made some remark concerning a tolerably handsome 
preacher he saw once upon a time. 

Old Sister Scroggins decided that it had come her 
turn to comment on the baby’s appearance, so she 
squinted one eye and looked toward the top of the 
house as if trying to remember something, and re- 
marked: “As well as I kin ermember, that ar baby 
looks jist like my Bobby thar did when he war a 
youngun.” 

A cold chill ran over Sister Gladys, but she quick- 
ly called to mind the fact that every mother thinks 
her child the prettiest in the world, so she appreciat- 
ed Sister Scroggins’s meaning, while the others bit 
their lips at the thought of her words. 

Brother Gladys didn’t feel like laughing or biting 
his lips, but he forced a smile, while to himself he 
thought: “What an old goose Sister Scroggins can 
be sometimes.” 

Bobby made no remark, but at the sound of his 
name started up, gathered his lips together after the 
fashion of a nut cracker, looked wise, and returned to 
his normal position. 

“Have you named him yet? ” asked Mrs. Dodson, 
opening her eyes very wide and looking at Sister 
Gladys. 

“ No, we have not fully decided what we shall call 
him, but we want to decide to-night.” 

“I’ll tell you what let’s all do,” said old Sister 
Scroggins, as she gave her corpulent nose a signifi- 
cant sniff. “ Let’s all say a name, and when the baby 
smiles that will be the name for him, because it 
pleases him.” 

Sister Gladys, much amused at the idea, hid her 


38 THE peeacher’s son. 

laughter and said: “ Yery well; that will be a good 
plan.” 

They all turned their attention to the baby’s facial 
gymnastics and began to call over names. Mr. Dod- 
son led ofP with “Andrew Jackson,” but the baby con- 
tinued to look crabbed. 

Mr. Driskill followed with “James K. Polk,” but 
there was no change in the baby’s countenance. 

Mrs. Dodson tried “ George Washington,” but at 
that the baby squirmed and grunted as if its little 
stomach were contorted with numerous diabolical 
cramps and pains. They all stopped a minute to laugh 
and to give Brother Gladys time to explain his son’s 
ignorance of the greatness and worth of George 
Washington. 

Sister Driskill almost punched the baby’s throat as 
she put her tickling finger under his chin and said: 
“Capers Green McFerrin.” At the sound of that 
combination the baby opened his eyes very wide and 
had the appearance of being exceedingly happy. 
His every feature assumed just such a position that 
one would have known he was, by instinct, a Metho- 
dist. 

After much restlessness on the part of Sister Scrog- 
gins, and much deliberation on the part of the others, 
they decided that while the child was certainly pleased, 
there was room on his little face for a broader smile. 

Brother Gladys took his turn. He looked into the 
very soul of his boy, and imagined that he could see 
much “ bishop timber ” already beginning to develop. 
He so much wanted to name his baby for some of the 
bishops, but the thought of continuing the family 
name caused him to say ‘^John Enoch.” Sister 


HE IS NAMED. 


39 


Scroggins, without giving the baby time to smile or 
think, blurted out: “An whar do you git them names 
frum? ” 

“‘John’ is for my father, and ‘Enoch’ is for 
Louise’s father.” 

“Air they both a-livin’ ? ” 

“ Louise’s father is living, but mine died ten years 
ago.” 

“ Well, I wouldn’t begin to think of namin’ him 
arter any dead folks, fur hits the worst kind er luck. 
But the Enoch part will do very well, fur it’ll be fur 
the Bible man and fur his maw’s paw.” 

Sister Gladys could hardly suppress an outright 
laugh, but by some means she assumed that innocent 
look so common to a preacher’s wife when she is 
amused and don’t want anybody else to know it. At 
last her turn came. She sought to bewitch the baby 
with the same sweet, fascinating smile that had sub- 
dued the Bev. Gladys a couple of years before. In 
her sweetest tones she pronounced the names, “ Isaac 
Fitzgerald.” I verily believe that baby would have 
smiled then and there had it not been for old Sister 
Scroggins, who, realizing that her time had at last 
rolled around, poked her great, fleshy nose right 
against the baby’s cheek and said: “B’ess him ’ittle 
bones, ‘John Wesley Purinton Ezra Washington 
Jones.’ ” 

Brother Gladys was determined that his baby 
should not smile at such a roll call as that. He 
threw several fresh splinters on the coals, and the 
flashing of the sudden blaze caused the baby to grunt 
and moan and whine. 

Sister Scroggins, anxious that Bobby should try 


40 


THE PliEACHEli’S SON. 


his hand, said: “ Bobby, sonny, you call a name, too, 
honey.” But just as she mentioned Bobby’s name 
that baby, only three weeks old, smiled a great, big, 
healthy smile that sent a thrill of horror to Sister 
Gladys’s heart. 

“ There, there, b’ess him Tttle bones, him wants to 
be named for my Bobby,” said Bobby’s mother; but 
Bobby only looked up and said: “ He! he! he! ” 

Brother Gladys decided that enough of a thing 
was enough, so he said: “Brethren and sisters, 
let’s quit this foolishness and decide on a name. As 
his grandfather Atkins is living, I think it would be 
a source of great pleasure to him to have us name the 
baby for him.” 

“ Yes,” replied Sister Gladys, “ I know papa would 
be delighted, and, besides, I like the name ‘ Enoch ’ 
better than any of those long names that can be so 
grievously abbreviated. I further suggest that we 
add “McKendree.” 

Sister Scroggins looked morose, Bobby was nod- 
ding. All the others agreed that the name was both 
suitable and pretty. 

“’I think,” said Brother Gladys, “that ‘Enoch 
McKendree Gladys ’ is the very name that the good 
Lord intended for this baby.” 

“And I think,” sneeringly replied Sister Scroggins, 
“that that er youngun’ll scratch a poor man’s head 
as long as he lives, for I never k no wed it to fail whar 
a man’s unitials didn’t spell nothin’.” 

Now, let’s draw a long, easy breath, for our preach- 
er’s son, be he a pretty child or otherwise, has a 
good name, and one preeminently decent and eupho- 
nious. 


HE IS NAMED. 


41 


May the life of Enoch McKendree Gladys, whose 
life’s history is to fill these pages, be as full of grace 
as was that Enoch of old, who walked with God and 
was not, for God took him! and may his life be as 
full of good works as was that Moses of Methodism, 
the great McKendree! 


CHAPTEE VI. 

HIS FIRST ILLNESS. 


S INCE the events recorded in the last chapter, five 
light-winged weeks had flown. 

Brother and Sister Gladys had never experienced 
so much sunshine in their lives before. The two 
months after their baby brought into their lives joy 
and hope and smiles of transport seemed to them as 
time spent entertaining an angel. Poor young crea- 
tures, they did not realize that trembling, fears, and 
sorrows must sit in the parent’s heart, side by side 
with joy and hope. They did not realize that cheeks 
even when gay with smiles are sometimes dashed 
with tears. 

After two months of remarkable health and growth 
the baby suddenly became quite ill. None but a 
parent’s heart, which has been in the same fire, can 
sympathize with young parents or form any concep- 
tion of their anxiety. 

They feared the worst, but their fear was of the vir- 
tuous kind which leads to hope and relying on God. 

The panting infant on its mother’s breast rolled 
its little eyes backward and showed unmistakable 
signs of great agony. The poor heartbroken fa- 
ther — his anxiety could not have been greater than 
the mother’s — but I seem to see him yet as he bends 
over the babe, his eyes reading every expression of 
the little face and gazing as the moon gazes on the 
water. 

( 42 ) 


HIS FIRST ILLNESS. 


43 


Eeader, have you never watched the suffering of a 
little child, an infant, perhaps your own, and felt 
that pang that makes one sick? 

“Mr. Gladys, what must we do? He seems to get 
worse and worse.” 

“I don’t know, Louise. We have done all we know 
how to do. Let us offer another prayer to God.” With 
these words Brother Gladys knelt by his wife’s chair, 
placed one hand on his baby and the other on his 
wife’s shoulder, and if ever two mortals pleaded be- 
fore a throne of grace they did, then and there. 
They didn’t ask the Lord to go contrary to his will 
and heal the child, but they prayed the will of God 
to be done. They had made up their minds to wel- 
come any trial or disaster that would draw them 
nearer to God. They had God in their hearts. 

Surely the throne of God with all it blest inhabit- 
ants was charmed with that sweet, simple prayer: 
“ Father, thy will, not ours be done. ‘ O that I 
might have my request, and that God would grant 
me the thing that I long for! ’ ” 

Those parents knew that God had blessed them, 
and they were beginning to realize that a thread of 
sorrow is woven into the life of every being. 

Parents, have you not, at some time, when you 
were wrestling with God to restore your infant to 
health, stopped short a minute as something put it 
into your mind that possibly that child would grow 
up in sin? How reasonable and just and right for 
us to say: “Lord, teach us how to pray!” 

After a few days of great suffering a marked im- 
provement in the baby’s condition was noticed. Un- 
utterable joy filled the parent’s hearts. Tears of 


44 


THE preacher’s SON. 


gratitude pronounced their feelings. Pleasures are 
more exquisite if they follow pain. Although they 
felt that God had heard their prayers, they believed 
that God helps those who help themselves; and for 
fear the child might gi*ow worse, they sent for the 
old physician. They would have had him sooner, 
but when they sent for medicine he was off on a long 
trip to some patient who was dangerously ill, and 
besides, it was twenty miles from Brother Gladys’s 
cottage door to the doctor’s home. 

When the doctor arrived, he found the baby still 
improving. After speaking to Brother and Sister 
Gladys he put his big, rough hand on the baby’s head 
and said: ‘‘Hello, Bishop; don’t you remember me?” 
Then turning to Brother Gladys he asked: “What 
have you done for him? ” 

“ We did all we could for him; but if it hadn’t been 
for our prayers and the kindness of our neighbors, I 
believe he would have been dead.” 

“I’m glad, my young brother,” said the doctor, 
“that you have learned to administer the best dose 
that ever was given, and the chief est thing that man 
can offer to God. I never measure a dose of medicine 
that I don’t ask God’s blessings upon it, and I al- 
ways pray with and for my patients.” 

Would to God that every doctor could say as much! 

In the course of two weeks from the time the baby 
was taken sick, he was quite himself again ; but there 
was something in Brother Gladys’s heart that he had 
not dared even to tell the companion of his bosom. 

He had for three years been a local preacher, and 
all along, in his quiet moods, he felt it his duty to 
join the Conference and go regularly into the work 


HIS FIRST ILLNESS. 


45 


of the ministry. But somehow he had tried to keep 
out of the work and to dismiss the thought from his 
mind. Like thousands of his fellow-men, every wave 
of trouble carried his mind to the all-absorbing 
theme he had tried to forget. He felt that possibly 
the baby’s illness was merely a warning sent from 
God, and that he had better quit his trade and fol- 
low his calling. Sunshine in his home again, he 
straightway forgot his sorrow, and tried to forget 
his warning. Like Pharaoh, his heart hardened 
when his troubles passed. 

How many thousands have walked in the same 
path, convicted of duty but trying to shun its con- 
duct! Yes, I dare say that many of the best preachers 
the world ever saw tried either to get out of the line 
of duty or else the devil tried to make them think 
they were mistaken in their calling. It seems strange 
that men will not understand that the soundest rea- 
son, the highest obligation for performing a duty is 
implied by the conviction of it. The trouble with 
them is: their conviction (if such a thing is possible 
without conduct) is worthless because it is not con- 
verted into conduct. If a man would be hajppy, he 
must consult duty, not events. He must reach the 
point where he can see everything perish that inter- 
feres with duty. 

But let us turn our attention again to the baby 
and see how he is getting along. 

Seven months old, the picture of health and hardi- 
hood. From the beginning of this chapter to the 
present record the child’s health had been exceeding- 
ly good, with the exception of a spell of “ thrushes,” 
as Sister Scroggins called it. I must tell you the 


46 


THE PEEACHER’s SON. 


antidotes proposed for that child. One afternoon 
Brother Gladys came from the shop and found Enoch 
exceedingly cross, and Sister Gladys quite worn out, 
for the little fellow had suffered half of the day. 

“Mr. Gladys, there is something the matter with 
Enoch, and I can’t do a thing for him. You run over 
to Sister Scroggins’s and tell Bobby to go after Sis- 
ter Phillips.” 

“ Very well,” replied Brother Gladys, trembling at 
the remembrance of his warning. Away he went as 
fast as his feet could carry him. Beaching the fence 
in front of Mrs. Scroggins’s house, he called out: 
“Halloo!” 

He heard a shuffling of chairs or boxes and at the 
same time a broom gliding over the floor and Sister 
Scroggins calling out: “You Bobby, git up from that 
ar table — don’t kill yourself a-eaten — and go to the 
door, for somebody is jest hollerin’ out thar. I guess 
hits somebody wantin’ to stay all night, like as ef wo 
kep’ a inn.” 

Bobby obeyed the command, opened the door, and 
peering through the twilight, asked: “ Who air ye? ” 

Sister Scroggins, although she had made Bobby 
open the door, stood just behind him and peeped over 
his shoulder. Without giving Brother Gladys time 
to tell Bobby his name, she blurted out: “Why, Bob- 
by, hits Brother Gladys. Come in. Brother Gladys. 
Hit seems like I cain’t teach Bobby how to talk; he 
is forever an’ eternally a- puttin’ hisself in the door, 
an’ a-axin’ “Who air ye?” afore I git time to say 
nothin’.” 

Brother Gladys thanked her, explained his mission, 
and told her he must hurry back. 


HIS FIRST ILLNESS. 


47 


Sister Scroggins sent Bobby over to Sister Phil- 
lips’s at once, then covering the coals to keep fire till 
her return, she accompanied Brother Gladys to his 
home. Before they reached his yard they heard 
the baby crying. Sister Scroggins said: “Brother 
Gladys, that ar brat is got the thrushes, fur I can tell 
by how he cries.” 

On entering the room they found the child sufier- 
ing intensely. Sister Scroggins looked in his mouth 
and said: “That’s what’s the matter; he’s got the 
thruslies, but they hain’t nothin’ a tall to kyore.” 
Then turning to Brother Gladys she said: “ You go 
out in the yard a minute.” 

When Brother Gladys was fairly into the yard. 
Sister Scroggins put her mouth close to Sister 
Gladys’s ear and whispered: “ You git nine wood lice 
and wrap um up in a checkerdy cloth, an’ tie um 
aroun’ the chile’s neck, an’ he’ll soon be soun’ and 
well, provide!! you don’t say nothin’ about it; fur if 
you do, hit won’t do no good a tall.” 

Brother Gladys was allowed to come into the house, 
and at the same time Bobby came with Mrs. Phillips, 
and along with them came Mrs. Dodson^ who just 
happened to be over at Sister Phillips’s. 

Mrs. Dodson, whose remedy was not a secret one, 
spoke out, “ If you will get Brother Driskill to blow 
his breath in that baby’s mouth, he will get well sure;” 
and she earnestly continued, “ for he has been known 
to cure a hundred children right around here.” 

While the others were talking Sister Phillips pro- 
cured a few sage leaves, made a tea of it, and after 
sprinkling a little alum in it, washed the baby s 
mouth. 


48 


THE PREACHEE’S SON. 


Bobby, for once in his life, got up enough courage 
to remark: “I hearn ole Squire Parsons say tother 
day that his chillun was alius kyored of them thar 
thrushes by a-gittin’ of a Irish tater an’ a-grittin’ hit 
an’ a-sprinklin’ hit ever the fire.” 

Sister Scroggins gave her boy a harsh, reproving 
look, and said: “That’s jist like Bobby. He kin 
bleave the most outlandishest things in the world.” 

The alum and sage tea worked like a charm. A 
pleasant evening was spent. They told war stories, 
talked about ghosts, witches, haunted houses, and the 
like, and brought the pleasant evening to a close by 
listening to a tune on Brother Gladys’s army fife, and 
bowing around the humble fireside for a word of 
prayer. 


CHAPTEK VIL 

fathee’s victoey and geanddaddy’s boy. 

I T was not very long before Brother Gladys had 
another warning. The shop in which he was a 
laborer burned, and with it all his tools except a few 
he had carried home to repair. He had reached the 
point where he could do nothing but think, and with 
every meditation the sense of undone duty grew upon 
him. 

The devil seemed to say to Brother Gladys: ‘‘Ha! 
if the Lord had wanted you to go to preaching, he 
v/ould have allowed every one of your tools burned, 
my good, noble friend. Don’t you think so?” 

Now, isn’t it a characteristic of the devil to make a 
gigantic hallucination out of nothing? I’m proud to 
tell you that this temptation only served to bring the 
remnant of doubt out of Brother Gladys’s heart. He 
had already reasoned and prayed over the matter till 
the devil couldn’t induce him to approach near 
enough to the forbidden fruit to even look at it. He 
saw the devil’s trap, but refused his bait. 

Brother Gladys went to a little shelf, got the Bible, 
and turning to St. Matthew, read: “ Jesus saith unto 
him, Get thee hence, Satan; for it is written. Thou 
shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt 
tliou serve. Then the devil leaveth him, and, behold, 
angels came and ministered unto him.” “ Watch and 
pray, that ye enter not into temptation.” 

Sister Gladys saw the brave tears stealing in large 
4 ( 49 ) 


50 


THE preacher’s SON. 


silent drops to lier Imsband’s eyes; and feeling that 
she knew the cause, she half regretted to kiss them 
dry. Turning her eloquent face to him, she inquired : 
“Mr. Gladys, what is the matter?” 

That inquiry was enough. Dropping upon his 
knees by the side of her chair, he said, half weeping 
and half laughing: “Louise, the conflict is ended. I 
have fought against it, but I am overcome.” 

Sister Gladys was happy to know that the great 
burden had been lifted from her dear husband’s 
shoulders, but she could not speak. Her language 
was too big for words. There, with their hearts and 
their lives laid upon the altar, they seemed to catch 
a glimpse of heaven through their mingling, falling 
tears. 

And there for good, they raised the supplicated voice, 

But left to Heaven the measure and the choice. 

Henceforth, dear reader, you will find Brother 
Gladys in the path of duty. He will, of course, have 
trials and temptations; but to all of these he will say: 
“ Gqt thee behind me, Satan.” 

Up to that time Brother Gladys had been trying 
to excuse himself from the ministry on the ground 
of his ignorance. Poor man, for three years he had 
been obliged to study his hymns, as a schoolboy 
studies his speech, in order that he might be able to 
read them from the pulpit. Eight then he said : “ If 
the Lord wants me to preach, he will help me to get 
an education, even yet.” 

He went to work chopping cord wood by day, and 
studying by noon and night. Pie kept that up for 
some time, till Enoch was one year old. Then came 
the greatest trouble that had ever crossed the lives of 


father’s victory and granddaddy’s boy. 51 

Brother and Sister Gladys. Little Enoch, fat and 
cheerful, began to lose flesh, and grew pale and thin 
and fretful. The downgrade in his health continued 
till, finally, physicians and friends advised them to 
move to some other place; not because they thought 
'West Tennessee unhealthy, but because they thought 
the change would save the baby’s life. 

At once the time of moving and the place to which 
they would move was decided upon, and in two days 
they were ready to start on their journey. Just at 
daybreak a covered wagon with two mules hitched to 
it stood in front of the cabin. The bed and the 
trunk and the box of provisions were placed in the 
back of the wagon. In the front end two chairs were 
placed, one for Sister Gladys and one for the driver. 
It was not long till the careworn mother emerged 
from the cabin door. Following her was Sister 
Phillips, with Enoch, little more than a skeleton, 
wrapped snugly in a quilt. 

Quite a number of the neighbors had collected to 
bid them farewell. Sister Gladys climbed into the 
wagon. Sister Phillips handed the baby to her, and 
they all said good-bye. The driver caught up the 
reins, clucked to the mules, and the wagon began to 
move off up the hill. Brother Gladys and Mr. Dris- 
kill were to* take it turn about with Mr. Dodson, 
driving and walking. 

Sister Gladys gave one long, lingering glance of 
sadness at the birthplace of her darling as they 
turned to descend the hill on the other side. Some- 
how she felt that she would never see that place 
again, and she was afraid that Enoch would die be- 
fore they could possibly reach their journey’s end. 


52 


THE PKEACHER’S SON. 


The good people who had collected to see them off 
turned toward their homes, each one murmuring sad- 
ly: “Poor young people, how sad it will be for them 
to have to stop on a strange road and bury their only 
child.” 

The journey lasted twelve days. At night they 
camped near some little stream. Enoch and his 
mother slept in the wagon; the three men slept on 
quilts spread around the camp fire. Several times 
Brother Gladys was aroused from sleep by the cries 
of Sister Gladys, who would be calling him: “ Come 
quick; I believe the baby is dying.” 

In the providence of God the little fellow lingered. 
A few months before this would have been consid- 
ered a warning by Brother Gladys, but he said: “Fa- 
ther, thy will, not mine, be done. Henceforth we will 
serve thee, though it should cost us our lives.” 

I need not go into the details of the journey, but I 
must tell you that one dark night the travelers came 
to the bank of the Tennessee Biver. They had not 
put up to camp at the usual hour, because Enoch was 
worse and they wanted to reach the other side of the 
river, where they had been told a doctor lived. It 
was a very dark night, and the men hallooed them- 
selves almost hoarse, but could get no reply from the 
boatman, and the boat was on the opposite side of 
the river from them. What was to be done? 

Kind reader, that father did no more for his child 
than your father would have done for you. Looking 
across the angry, rolling, muddy billows, the young 
father parleyed not with fear nor danger, but plunged 
in, his heart full of prayer and hope. 

Think of the terrible agony endured by that wife 


father’s victory and granddaddy’s boy. 53 

and motlier during tliose few minutes. She listened 
for the stroke of that arm she loved so well, then she 
would listen to see if her baby was yet breathing. 
She knew not but that a dying babe lay in her arms 
and a drowning husband before her blinded eyes. 
Brother Gladys secured the boat and very soon re- 
turned with it. They crossed over and in a few min- 
utes reached the home of a kind old physician, who 
administered to the sick child. The dawning of the 
following morning found them resuming their tire- 
some journey. 

In the course of a few days they reached a black- 
smith shop and stopped to have the mules shod. 
There was nothing remarkable about the shop or 
about the travelers’ stopping there; but it is re- 
markable that where that old shop stood, in that 
washed field, now stands the lovely city of Birming- 
ham, xila., the pride of the South, the goodly Queen 
of Dixie. And the sick baby that lay there in his 
mother’s arms is not yet thirty years old. When the 
journey came to an end, the travelers found them- 
selves in front of a cottage in the town of Gadsden, 
Ala. It was the residence of the Eev. Enoch Atkins. 

The whole family rushed out to welcome their 
loved ones home again. The grandfather took poor 
little Enoch, his namesake, into his arms and looking 
into his sunken eyes, he said: “Never mind, my 
baby; you are granddaddy’s boy now.” 

The change saved the child’s life. In two months 
his grandfather said: “My boy is the fattest boy in 
Etowah County.” 


CHAPTEE VIII. 


CRYING TO JOIN THE CONFERENCE. 

Thou little child, 

Thy mother’s joy, thy father’s hope — thou bright, 

Pure dwelling, where two fond hearts keep their gladness — 


Thou little potentate of love. 


— Dobell. 


^WO years from the close of the last chapter we 



-L find Enoch jabbering to a little sister. During 
those two years Brother Gladys worked and studied 
at the shoe shop, and worked and studied at home. 
Lying on a shelf at the side of his Bible were a num- 
ber of homemade sermons in homemade books. 

Toward the close of the year a Conference was or- 
ganized in the town of Gadsden. Brother Gladys 
gave up his job in the shop and prepared to join the 
Conference. Enoch heard his parents talking about 
joining the Conference, but he couldn’t quite under- 
stand what they meant. After listening attentively 
for some time, he asked: “ Papa, what do vat mean? ” 
Brother Gladys explained to his boy that he was 
going to give his life to the Lord. 

Enoch, young as he was, had clearer conceptions of 
religion than of anything else. I don’t mean to say 
that he understood the articles of faith; I mean he 
felt the workings of the Spirit in his little heart as 
did the beloved disciple in his infancy. 

The little boy’s earnest, joyous, sparkling eyes, full 
of hope and curiosity, met his father’s, and, hesitating 
as if gathering force for his words, he asked: “ Papa, 
may me doin de Tonference too?” 


(;54) 


CRYING TO JOIN THE CONFERENCE. 


55 


“ After awliile, Enoch,” said Brother Gladys, smil- 
ing. Then he thought to himself: “ Would that I had 
possessed the faith of my child. No wonder the Mas- 
ter admonishes us to become as little children. I 
wonder if Enoch’s childhood shows the man as morn- 
ing shows the day?” 

The session of Conference passed off pleasantly. 
Brother Gladys was assigned to the “ Slab Eock Mis- 
sion.” 

The morning came for the itinerant and his family 
to leave for their work. Enoch’s little sister, Fannie, 
was unusually fretful that morning, and while she 
was crying Enoch toddled up to his mother’s knee 
where the babe was lying, and, shaking his first in 
its face, he said: “Now, tister, you mus’ hus’ right 
up, for us belongs to de Tonference.” 

Of course grandfather Atkins and family came 
over to see them off. It is quite possible that in the 
confusion Enoch got his idea of heaven confounded 
with the itinerancy, for when he told his grandfather 
good-bye, he said: “ Dranpa, us is a-doin to heaben; 
you mus’ turn to see us.” I suppose the little fellow 
remembered having heard his father say he was go- 
ing to give himself to the Lord, and in his childish 
simplicity he did not see how that could be without 
going to heaven. 

You know, kind reader, there are some people who 
think preachers are a miserable set of men, living on 
charity and wishing they had not been called to 
preach. What a mistake! There is no class of men 
on earth with more of heaven in their lives than 
meek, submissive ministers of the gospel. Pain, 
poverty, and sorrow may get hold upon them, but 


56 


THE PEEACHEE’S SON. 


there is a kind of halo about their lives wliich shouts 
in unmistakable words: “It is heaven upon earth to 
do my Master’s will.” 

After two days of weary travel Rev. Gladys and 
family reached the home of Brother Roe, the leading 
steward on the “ Slab Rock Mission.” The people 
had promised to have a house ready for the preacher, 
but for some reason they had not kept their word. 
Rev. Gladys took his family to an old log house that 
had once been used for a dwelling, but for several 
years had served the purpose of cotton and fodder 
house. There they camped till Brother Gladys and 
a few of the brethren built a cottage. Brother 
Gladys himself put the last row of sticks and dirt 
on the chimney, on the morning of the twenty-fourth 
of December, and moved his family that afternoon. 

Some years ago I remember hearing my mother 
read an article from the Alabama Advocate, It was 
a letter from some preacher who had just arrived at 
his new work. He said: “We have reached our 
home. We found the parsonage floor covered with, 
the table laden with, and the barn full of that 
blessed gift from God — pure air.” 

How different it was with Brother Gladys! He 
found nothing but pure air, no floor for it to cover, 
no table to support it, and no barn to contain it. 
The good brethren of the distant churches on the 
mission had not been able to assist in the building of 
the house, but they had collected a wagonload of 
good things to bring to the preacher on Christmas 
Day. 

Enoch heard his father talking about Brother 
Roe, Brother Banks, Brother Dale, and other stew- 


CKYING TO JOIN THE CONFERENCE. 


57 


ards, so one day while his father was away from 
home he looked up from the pen he had been mak- 
ing of cobs, and asked: “Mamma, what is ’towards? ” 

Sister Gladys explained to him that they are men 
appointed to administer to the wants of those who 
are devoting their whole time to the service of God. 
Now Brother Gladys was Enoch’s ideal of God, and 
he had learned that angels are ever with God. 
When he saw the stewards drive up to the yard with 
the wagonload of provisions, he ran into the house 
exclaiming: “ Mamma, de angels have turn.” 

Bless his little heart, although he was mistaken 
in the personages, there was much sound sense in 
his prattle. Angels might covet the pleasure of go- 
ing on a zealous steward’s errand. Stewards cannot 
know the joy they often leave in the hearts of suffer- 
ing children and mothers. And yet how careless 
some of them are! “ What will the recompense be? ” 
Would to God that all the stewards of the universe 
could feel in their hearts what little Enoch felt 
when he called them angels! “It is required in 
stewards, that a man be found faithful.” (1 Cor. 
iv. 2.) 


CHAPTEE IX. 

THE PEEACHEK’S SON BEATS THE PKESIDING ELDEE 
EATING CHICKEN. 

I N due course of time the first quarterly meeting 
was at hand. Brother Marquette, the presiding 
elder, was to arrive at Brother Gladys’ house on Fri- 
day evening and spend the night with him. 

Sister Gladys went out in the yard to notice where 
the only frying chicken roosted. Enoch followed 
her. The awkward young cock tried, to fly to a limb 
in a cedar tree, but each time it failed and struck the 
ground with a thump. Each time it would rise and 
crow. 

Enoch, a close observer, noticed it and asked: 
“Mamma, when he trows, is he beggin’ Dod to help 
him?” 

Sister Gladys replied: “I reckon so.” 

Now that chicken belonged to Enoch, and he was 
much attached to it, and besides it was the only 
chicken on the place that could crow. For these 
reasons Sister Gladys didn’t like to kill it. But the 
presiding elder was coming, and he couldn’t eat a 
fried hen, so that settled it. 

Sister Gladys saw the chicken safely perched 
where she could get it after dark, then turning to 
Enoch, she said: “Enoch, Brother Marquette will be 
here directly to stay all night, and I will have to kid 
your chicken for breakfast.” At this intelligence 
the little fellow burst into tears, but his mother soon 
( 58 ) 


EATING CHICKEN. 59 

quieted him by promising him old “domineck” and 
all her little ones in payment for his one chicken. 

Brother Marquette arrived, and was introduced to 
the family. Brother Gladys went out to the barn to 
put the horse away, and Sister Gladys went to pre- 
pare supper. Enoch, proud to form acquaintances, 
and finding himself from under parental eyes and 
ears, stepped up to Brother Marquette, and leaning 
against his knee proceeded to propound unnumbered 
questions — such as, “What’s ower name?” 

“Has you dot a ’ittle boy ’bout as bid as me? ” 

“What is you doin’ to do wiff my papa? ” 

“Who tole my mamma vat you loves ticken? ” 

Enoch heard his father coming, left off interro- 
gating, and ran into the kitchen under pretense of 
helping his mamma take care of Fannie. 

After supper they all seated themselves around the 
fire and talked over the late Conference and one 
thing and another. Soon Brother Gladys called out: 
“ Enoch, come and stand by papa and say your cate- 
chism.” 

Enoch obeyed rather reluctantly, for he was very 
sleepy. 

“Now, then, that’s a little man; hold up your head 
and let your hands hang by your sides.” 

“ Who made you? ” 

“Dod.” 

“ Who was the first man? ” 

“Adam.” 

“ Who was the first woman ? ” 

“Eve.” 

“Who was the meekest man?” 

“ Mothes.” 


60 


THE rilEACHEll'S SON. 


“Who was the wisest man?” 

“ Tholomon.” 

“ Who was the oldest man? ” 

“Futhelam.” 

At the pronunciation of that name, Brother Mar- 
quette laughed outright. Enoch thought he had 
done something smart, and of course tried to be 
smarter when the next question was propounded. 

“ What did God do to Eve? ” 

“ He washed her face and put a tlean dess on her.” 

“ Come, Enoch, don’t be naughty. What did God 
do to Eve? ” 

“He whipped her, and she went a wunnin’ atross 
de tater patch dess a-flyin’.” 

“That will do, Enoch; you are a naughty boy to- 
night. Here, mother, put him to bed.” 

They had already had prayers and Brother Mar- 
quette, knowing that Brother Gladys had been a lifer 
in the war, asked him if he had a life. 

Brother Gladys got his life, poured a dipper of wa- 
ter through it, played the scale, and struck ofip on 
“ Homespun Dress.” 

“Well, well,” said Brother Marquette, the piece 
finished, “ that carries me back to Shiloh.” 

Brother Gladys was just in the act of striking off 
on another tune, when Enoch, who had recently 
showed off to such a disadvantage, began to cry at 
the top of his voice. His father called out: “What 
on earth is the matter with you, Enoch? That will 
do!” But it didn’t do, for the child only cried the 
louder. 

Sister Gladys went to the bed and inquired: 
‘Enoch, darling, what is the matter?” 


EATING CHICKEN. 


61 


Between snubs and sobs Enoch managed to say: 
“ You have tilled my ’ooster, and he tain’t trow, and 
it will never det daylight any more.” 

Sister Gladys kissed him and assured him that 
would come again, and told him to go to 
sleep and be a good boy. 

I should guess there are very few boys in this 
world who have not been saved from a father’s scold- 
ing by a mother’s gentle words. 

Enoch found his mother’s words true, for morning 
came and found him the first at the table. He was 
evidently chicken hungry, for before the blessing was 
asked he whispered: “Mamma, div me turn ticken.” 

Sister Gladys whispered: “Hush, Enoch; be a 
pretty boy; mother will wait on you directly.” 

Brother Marquette asked the blessing, and almost 
before he said amen Enoch reached around the cor- 
ner of the table and pulled his mamma’s dress, and, 
with his eyes fixed on the chicken dish, he whispered: 
“Mamma, p’ease ma’am div me turn ticken.” 

Sister Gladys blushed and said: “Hush, honey; 
papa will help your plate directly.” 

But Enoch wanted directly to come at once. He 
anxiously surveyed the dish of chicken, and ex- 
claimed: “Mamma, you ted if me would let you till 
my ’ooster I tould have all I wanted to eat and ole 
domineck betides.” 

Brother Marquette saw that poor Sister Gladys 
was humiliated, so he tried to smooth things by say- 
ing: “ Pass your plate, little man. You may have all 
the chicken you want.” 

Brother Gladys gave his young hopeful a look of 
I-will-settle-with-you-after-a-while, and everything 


G2 


THE PEEACHEK’S SON. 


moved along quietly till Enoch had devoured three 
pieces. It seems that he knew better than to ask for 
a fourth piece, so he inquired: “Mamma, may me 
sop de dravy bowl?” 

Brother Marquette ended his stay, and went away 
with a good impression of the young preacher, his 
wife, and little Fannie. He was not especially un- 
favorably impressed with Enoch, but, speaking of 
him to his own family, he said: “I think he is a 
spoiled child.” 

Three weeks from the time Brother Marquette 
paid them the visit. Brother Gladys went to an ap- 
pointment six miles away, and carried Sister Gladys 
and the children. Bemembering Enoch’s behavior 
when the presiding elder was with them. Sister 
Gladys decided on a plan to cure the young man. 
She cooked a whole chicken and put it before him 
and told him to help himself. As it was one of old 
“ domineck’s,” it was not. very large. Enoch ate all 
of it except the back, the neck, and one wing. Sister 
Gladys wiped the grease from his face and hands 
and said to herself: “O yes, young man, I won’t hear 
chicken out of you on this trip.” 

They reached the church, and everything moved 
along nicely till the sermon was about half over, 
when Enoch, suddenly thinking of the chicken he 
had left, leaned over and whispered: “Mamma, is 
you dot de pieces of ticken in de tatchel?” 

Sister Gladys shook her head at him, but he paid 
no attention to her. Pulling her dress again, he 
asked: “Mamma, mamma, O mamma! is you dot do 
pieces of ticken in de tatchel?” 

Sister Gladys was so vexed that she gave his arm 


EATING CHICKEN. 


63 


a little pinch to make him hush, whereupon he 
screamed out: “Twit vat pinchin’ me. Me des 
wants de neck.” 

Brother Gladys had a pleasant year on his work. 
Everybody was pleased with him and he with every- 
body. Enoch formed many acquaintances, and was 
always pleased when he had an opportunity of visit- 
ing. I think every little boy on “Slab Bock Mis- 
sion” was accused of eating chicken like Enoch 
Gladys. 

At the close of the second session of the Confer- 
ence, Brother Gladys was pleased to find himself re- 
turned to the same work, which had been enlarged 
and named “ Slab Bock Circuit ” instead of “ Slab 
Bock Mission.” 

For a week after Brother Gladys returned from 
Conference all his talk was about the brethren and 
especially about the bishop. 

Enoch asked: “Papa, what is a bithop?” 

“It is a man, my boy.” 

“ Well, papa, is you a bithop?” 

“ No, no, son, papa is not a bishop.” 

“Well, papa, when you die will you be a bithop?” 

Brother Gladys, as was his custom, explained the 
matter to Enoch’s satisfaction. He was very patient 
with his boy, and took delight in gently and imper- 
ceptibly eliciting thought. 

The close of that year found Enoch delighted with 
the presence of another little sister, who was named 
Statia, for her maternal grandmother. Enoch was 
also delighted with the idea of moving, for Brother 
Gladys had been assigned to the “ Dover Creek Cir- 
cuit.” 


G4 


THE PEEACHEIl’S SON. 


Sister Gladys soon decided that her boy was large 
enough to wear trousers. She made him a pair and 
put them on him. He felt his importance, and would 
often kiss his mamma good-bye, then get on his stick 
horse and ride off to the cow lot, where he would 
use an oak leaf for a hymn book and a block for a 
Bible, and with the calf, pig, and chickens for an au- 
dience he would preach his biggest sermons, after 
which little Fannie would pretend to take up a col- 
lection. 

One day one of the chickens tried to swallow a lit- 
tle snake. Afterward that chicken was made a sub- 
ject of Enoch’s special childish appeals. He got the 
story of Eve and the chicken mixed, and one day he 
asked his mamma if Eve swallowed one half of the 
snake and let Adam swallow the other half. 

Brother Gladys, either deserving a change or being 
a man for whom there was a great demand, was not 
allowed to remain at “ Dover Creek Circuit ” but one 
year. The next year he was assigned to the “ Gard- 
nerville Circuit.” Enoch was delighted with another 
move, but wept most bitterly when he parted with 
the familiar faces of the cat, calf, and chickens. 


CHAPTER X. 

BOYHOOD — HIS FIRST SCHOOL. 

Blessings on thee, little man, 

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 

Outward sunshine, inward joy: 

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! — Whittier, 

S AY, Bob,” said Eugene Lindsay to Robert Mul- 
ler, “that new preacher has a little boy named 
Enoch. I heard the parson tell Prof. Beard, the 
other day, that he was going to start the brat to 
school next Monday. Let’s have some fun out of it.” 

“All right. Gene,” said Robert, “ you know I’m al- 
ways ready for anything that has fun in it. What 
can w’e do? ” 

“I’ll tell you what we can do. You know that he 
comes over to our house. every evening for milk, and 
we can tell him that Prof. Beard always whips a boy 
the first thing after he starts to school.” 

“ Won’t that be jolly? ” said Bob. 

These two boys, older than Enoch and sons of 
prominent members of Brother Gladys’s Church, car- 
ried out their mischievous scheme, and well-nigh 
frightened the little fellow out of his wits. 

On the following Monday morning as Sister Gladys 
was fixing Enoch for school she noticed that he cried 
all the time. She thought it was because he hated 
to leave her. As soon as he was ready his father 
took him by the hand and said very sternly: “ Hush 
5 ( 65 ) 


66 


TPIE PEEACHEK’S son. 


that crying, young man, and come on. I will go 
■with you to the schoolhouse.” 

Enoch continued to cry, for he wanted to tell his 
papa what the boys had told him, but he was afraid 
to do so; they had threatened to whip him “on 
sight ” if he ever said anything about it. 

As father and son walked along hand in hand 
Enoch forgot what he was expecting to get on enter- 
ing school. They found quite a number of children 
already assembled on the playground. Some were 
playing ball, others jumping the rope and chasing 
the fox. All the children stopped playing for a sec- 
ond to take a look at the new pupil. Kobert and 
Eugene felt a little bit uneasy for fear that Enoch 
had told on them and that the preacher had come to 
report them to the teacher. 

Fifteen minutes after time for school to open, Prof. 
Beard, almost out of breath, came in and explained 
to Brother Gladys why it was that he had been de- 
tained. 

Brother Gladys left Enoch and went back home. 

Prof. Beard rang the bell, and a score or more of 
restless children came running and jumping and 
tumbling into the schoolroom. 

“Silence!” yelled the Professor, almost startling 
Enoch from his seat. Then he picked up a dusty 
Bible and after turning through it selected the for- 
tieth chapter of Ezekiel and proceeded to read the 
whole of it. Occasionally he would stop to say: 
“Children, how can you hope to be edified by this 
holy reading unless you devote to me your individual 
attention.” When the chapter was ended, the Pro- 
fessor said: “Let us pray.” He and several girls 


BOYHOOD— HIS FIRST SCHOOL. G7 

and a few boys closed tlier eyes and really looked as 
if they were praying. Little Enoch closed his eyes 
too — much to the annoyance of several boys who al- 
ways chose chapel time to do their mischief — while 
the teacher’s eyes were closed. Eugene Lindsay 
waited till the prayer was about half finished (they 
all knew what the prayer would be and how long it 
would be), then he tiptoed to Enoch and whispered 
in his ear: “The teacher will fix you as soon as he 
gets through prayin’.” Enoch was already excited 
nearly to death. The Professor said amen, and all 
the children looked as devout as if they had really 
been praying — earnestly wrestling in prayer. 

Prof. Beard threw his great white eyes across the 
schoolroom, knit his eyebrows, and fixed a fiery glare 
on Enoch, while with a gruff tone he said to him: 
“ Bring your book, young man, and come here.” All 
eyes were turned toward Enoch, who, instead of 
obeying the teacher, began to cry and tremble. 
“There, there, young man, that’s enough of that. 
Hush and come here, or I will send for a switch.” 

By that time Enoch was frightened half to death, 
and could not do anything but cry. The teacher 
sent his own son out after a switch, and actually 
whipped that poor, scared child the first thing after 
prayers. Poor Enoch, he was whipped not because 
he was a preacher’s son, but because his schoolmates 
were inhuman and his teacher as bad. How, in the 
name of high Heaven, can human beings take delight 
in seeing others suffer? At recess Enoch heard Eu- 
gene tell some of the boys that the preacher’s son 
was a little cry baby and couldn’t stay away from his 
mammy. Enoch went off into a thicket and lay 


68 


THE preacher’s SON. 


down on the oak leaves and cried as if his little heart 
would break. Soon the bell rang; he rubbed the 
tears from his eyes and hurried to his place in the 
schoolroom. 

His mother had taught him his A B C’s from the 
Nashville Christian Advocate^ hence he was able to 
begin in the “a-b ab, b-e be, b-i bi ” part of Web- 
ster’s blue back spelling book. Enoch was placed 
under the charge of the assistant, Mrs. Corley, who 
was a corpulent, good-natured soul. Under her tui- 
tion he learned very rapidly, at least Prof. Beard re- 
ported to Brother Gladys: ‘‘Your boy has just went 
to school two weeks, and he can say every one of his 
A B C’s back’ards.” 

Very soon Enoch was advanced far enough for the 
First Beader. At the end of the first month Prof. 
Beard told him he must have a speech for the follow- 
ing Friday. Some of the large boys taught him one, 
and he said it bravely. It was as follows: 

If I had a scolding wife, 

I’d whip her shore’s you’re born, 

I’d take her down to New Orleans 
And trade her off for corn. 

There was a boy in school, Tobe Brown, the son of 
an afflicted shoemaker. This boy had been receiving 
the kicks and cuffs of the school, and when they saw 
Enock get a whipping the first morning they ranked 
him along with Tobe. One morning at recess the 
larger boys got Tobe and Enoch off in the woods out 
of sight of the schoolhouse. As soon as they felt 
themselves secure from Prof. Beard’s eyes one boy 
said: “Tobe, that little boy Enoch said your heels 


BOYHOOD— HIS FIRST SCHOOL. 69 

were like jaybird’s lieels; and if I were you, I wouldn’t 
take any such.” 

Enoch replied: *‘No, Tobe, I didn’t say any such 
thing.” 

Whereupon the boys all shouted: “Just look at 
cry baby, ain’t he a big coward! ” i 

That taunt was too much for the little fellow; so 
he pulled up his sleeves and said: “I didn’t say it, 
but I ain’t afraid to say it.” In a few minutes Enoch 
and Tobe were in a rough and tumble fight, while the 
other boys stood off, a part of them crying, “I’m 
bettin’ on Tobe,” the others saying, “ I’m bettin’ on 
Enoch.” When the bell rang, the other boys ran 
to the schoolhouse and left the two little fellows to 
drag along behind, with their clothes torn and dusty, 
their faces and hands scratched and bleeding. 

No sooner had they reached the schoolroom than 
the professor jerked up his switch, and taking Enoch 
by the hand, said: “This is a pretty example for a 
preacher’s son to set. I’ll make you remember who 
is to do the fighting in this school.” Suiting his 
action to his words, he gave Enoch a severe thrash- 
ing; after which he gave it to Tobe quite lively. 

In the school was a young man by the name of 
Sam Eayburn who suspected that Enoch was im- 
posed upon. About a week from the time the boys 
had their first fight, Sam noticed the crowd hurrying 
off to fighting quarters, and he stole around through 
the bushes and found how everything was going. 
He knew that Enoch would soon be in for another 
fight and a subsequent flogging, so he hurried back 
to the schoolhouse and told Prof. Beard what he had 
seen and heard. 


70 


THE preacher’s SON. 


The professor put great store by Sam, so he went 
down to the edge of the thicket and hid behind a 
stump and saw and heard everything; then he went 
back to the house and rang the bell. The boys came 
running and jumping and laughing in their sleeves 
at the fun they had had out of Enoch and Tobe, and 
at the thought of the beating the two young pugilists 
would soon get. 

Prof. Beard sent Enoch and Tobe for switches, 
with the instruction to get good, stout ones. Poor 
boys! they were frightened nearly to death; they 
thought the Professor was going to nearly kill them. 
Imagine their relief when the teacher gave every boy 
that encouraged the fight a severe thrashing, and 
never touched either of them. After that, Enoch’s 
path in his first school was smooth and pleasant 
enough. Prof. Beard found out that Enoch was not 
such a bad boy after all, and Mrs. Corley and Sam 
Bayburn always had a kind word for him. By the 
close of school he had grown to be quite a favorite. 
Even Eugene and Bobert acknowledged that they 
were ashamed of themselves, and found favor in 
Enoch’s sight. 

Brother Gladys was very anxious to remain on 
that work another year, as Enoch was doing so well 
in school, but when the appointments were read out 
he found that he was moved to “Camp Morris,” a 
town two hundred miles away. 


CHAPTEE XL 

COALS OF FIEE ON TWO HEADS. 

W ITHIN three weeks from the time Enoch left 
Prof. Beard’s school he found himself in a 
land of strangers and in a new school. His teacher, 
Miss Gertrude Looney, was a rather eccentric being, 
whose faded appearance gave evidence that in the 
long ago she had been a blithesome blonde. 

Miss Looney’s was a private school, in which there 
were about twenty-five children, none of them more 
than twelve years old. Among the number there 
were three Jew children, a brother and his two sis- 
ters. The boy, Jacob Fumblestein, was about three 
years older than Enoch, and his parents had forbid 
him having anything to do with Enoch because he 
was a “ white-headed Gentile.” 

Enoch was assigned a seat just in front of Jacob. 
Everything moved along xfieasantly enough for sever- 
al weeks, but Enoch soon learned that the teacher 
was more careful to please Jacob and his sisters than 
any of the other pupils. 

Enoch, childlike, would look at his own patched 
trousers and then at Jacob’s neatly fitting ones, and 
wish his papa was rich, so that the teacher would like 
him too. 

One day Jacob stuck a pin in Enoch, which, of 
course, made him jump and caused tlie little boys 
around him to laugh out. Calling Enoch to her. 
Miss Looney bent his fingers back as far as she 

( 71 ) 


72 


THE PEEACHEIi’s SON. 


could, and dealt him a dozen heavy blows on the 
palm with a cedar paddle. Enoch tried to tell her 
that Jacob caused it by sticking him with a pin, but 
she raved out: “Hush your mouth! You are a pret- 
ty preacher’s son, trying to get somebody else into 
trouble on your own account.” 

That night Enoch told his mother what had hap- 
pened — Brother Gladys was away from home. Sis- 
ter Gladys looked at the child’s hand; it was blue 
and swollen. She put Enoch and his little sisters to 
bed; then she went out and sat on the front steps 
and took a big cry because her boy had been so foul- 
ly abused. (I guess there are very few boys whose 
mothers’ eyes have not been wet with tears for them 
when tliey were soundly sleeping.) The next morn- 
ing Enoch had some fever and his hand was twdce as 
thick as his other hand. Brother Gladys came home 
about noon that day, and found Enoch in bed, suffer- 
ing intensely. Sister Gladys explained to him all 
that had happened. It almost broke his heart. 
Next morning he went over to see Miss Looney, and 
to inquire why she had treated his boy so savagely. 

Miss Looney told him that his boy was very bad, 
or she never would have whipped him, and that she 
only gave him a few little taps. 

Brother Gladys told her it was very strange that a 
few little taps should cause a boy’s hand to rise and 
give him a fever. 

All the school children had heard the conversation, 
and when Brother Gladys had replied to Miss Loo- 
ney, a hand was raised. 

The teacher looked up and inquired very softly: 
“What is it, Jacob, my dear? ” 


COALS OF FIRE ON TWO HEADS. 


73 


“ Please ma’am,” said Jacob, “I saw Enocli Gladys 
as he was going home yesterday afternoon, and he 
was striking his hand on the tops of the posts and 
pickets.” 

“Just as I expected,” said the teacher. “ We poor, 
downtrodden teachers are blamed with everything 
that is disagreeable.” 

“ Good day. Miss Looney. I shall try not to have 
occasion to blame you for anything hereafter,” said 
the preacher. 

“ Good-bye, Brother Gladys,” said the teacher with 
a look of sorrow that was strongly hypocritical. 
Then, as Brother Gladys passed out of the door, she 
continued: “I am willing to put up with your boy if 
you desire to return him to my school. He is indeed 
a much better boy than he was when I took charge 
of him several weeks ago.” 

Brother Gladys made no reply, but walked out of 
the house wearing a look of determination that his 
boy should never go there again. 

Enoch’s hand rose and made a very painful wound. 
The physician feared for a time that the child would 
lose his arm. 

That school horror was all the talk in the village 
for several days. A number of the sober-minded cit- 
izens, who knew Miss Looney’s disposition as a wom- 
an and as a teacher, advised Brother Gladys to pros- 
ecute and have her punished for her meanness. Oth- 
er people in the town took sides with the teacher, and 
said they didn’t see how she could bear up under such 
vile accusations. 

After Enoch had sufficiently recovered to walk 
about home with his hand in a sling, people passing 


74 


THE pheaciier’s son. 


would remark to each other: “There is the little ras- 
cal of a preacher’s sou who is reaping the reward of 
his own wickedness.” Poor boy, during his confine- 
ment he had plenty of time to meditate and wonder 
if preachers’ sons are really meaner than other boys. 
He would often ask his mamma if he was as mean as 
Jacob, who told the lie, or Dan, who stole the apple. 

His mother would reply: “Mamma thinks her lit- 
tle boy is trying to be good.” 

Brother Gladys was very sorry that such a thing 
should have happened, and he really thought Miss 
Looney needed severe correction. But, after think- 
ing about it, he decided that it would not do for it to 
be carried to law, as it might have a bad effect on 
Enoch. Generally he supported the teacher’s views 
in Enoch’s presence, but this time he was very silent. 

The teacher was not prosecuted according to law, 
but when her invalid mother was dying. Brother 
Gladys held the chilled hand and prayed that the 
family might be reunited in heaven. And at the 
grave, when Miss Looney, through her tears, saw lit- 
tle Enoch’s scarred hand place a bouquet of white 
roses on the casket, her heart bled and she felt the 
coals of fire on her head. It did her more good than 
a thousand legal prosecutions would have done. 

About a month after Mrs. Looney was buried, one 
afternoon Jacob was taking a ride on horseback. 
He w^as passing Brother Gladys’s humble cottage, and, 
with the hope of galloping by unobserved, he struck 
his pony with a whip. But just at that time a piece 
of paper blew across the road and frightened the an- 
imal, whereupon she reared and threw Jacob just in 
front of Brother Gladys’s gate. 


COALS OF FIRE ON TWO HEADS. 75 

The pony ran off down the road and left Jacob ly- 
ing senseless on the ground. Enoch, who happened 
to be digging in the garden, saw it all, and calling his 
mother, they ran out and carried Jacob into the 
house. 

His arm was broken. Sister Gladys bathed his 
face and did what she could for him, while Enoch 
ran for the doctor and Jacob’s mother. 

When Jacob regained consciousness he was in a 
crude little room which was not ceiled, the floors 
were bare and the windows had sleazy curtains in- 
stead of shades. His mother sat on the bed by his 
side; the doctor was sitting by the fireplace; Enoch 
was gathering the shavings which the doctor had cut 
from the splints with which to bind the broken arm; 
Mrs. Gladys sat on the other side of the bed and 
rubbed the boy’s head. 

As soon as Jacob opened his eyes, he looked into 
Sister Gladys’s eyes and asked: “Are you Enoch’s 
mother?” 

Sister Gladys replied: “Yes, Jacob.” 

Great tears came into Jacob s eyes, and he said: 
“ Please forgive me. I told a lie on your little boy, 
and I want everybody to know that I am sorry for 
it.” 

I need not add that this confession created quite a 
sensation and caused every one to look upon little 
Enoch with more compassion. 


CHAPTER XII. 


BIG UPS AND LITTLE DOWNS. 

W HEN Enocli was a little over nine years old, 
his third sister was born. They gave her the 
peculiar name of “ Pair.” She was a sweet baby and 
the image of her father. Enoch, Fannie, and Statia 
were more like their mother. 

For three years Enoch had been a regular attend- 
ant at Sabbath school. He was devoted to Mrs. 
Sherrod, his excellent teacher. His record for prompt- 
ness, deportment, and recitation -was among the best. 

One Sunday Enoch noticed that all the boys in 
his class wore pretty little caps. Of course he 
wanted one. He made known his want to his moth- 
er, and she told Brother Gladys about it. He said he 
had no money to be throwing away for caps, and be- 
sides that, Enoch’s hat was good enough. 

Sister Gladys, sweet mother, told Enoch she would 
make a cap for him. He was satisfied with the prom- 
ise, and had very little to say about it during the 
week. Poor Sister Gladys, I think she must have 
used all of one of Brother Gladys’s old coats trying 
to cut out pieces that would fit together in a cap. 
Finally she gave up trying, and was about to decide 
that she would have to disappoint her boy, when an 
idea struck her. She would take one of Mr. Gladys’s 
old hats and cut all the brim off except a little on one 
side; then she would bind it all around with some 
kind of black goods and Enoch would have a cap. 

( 76 ) 


BIG UPS AND LITTLE DOWNS. 


77 


She made it and put it away till Sunday morning, 
when she thought to give Enoch a pleasant surprise. 
After he had dressed his mother brought him his cap, 
but instead of him being pleased as she had expect- 
ed, he burst into tears and told her everybody would 
know that it was his papa’s old hat. 

Brother Gladys was sitting in an adjoining room. 
Enoch’s cries reached his ears, and he went in to 
learn the cause. “Now, young man, you wanted a 
cap, and you have one; so wear it,” said the father. 

Enoch wore it because he was forced to do so. On 
entering the church he hid it under a bench at the 
back of the house; and after the service was over he 
waited till everybody else was out, then he slipped 
the ugly thing from beneath the seat and hurried 
home. One can scarcely imagine how that child felt. 
He wondered why he, a preacher’s son, could not wear 
caps like other boys. In his own simple way he 
spent many hours miserably wondering. Enoch had 
just reached that age at which a boy’s greatest pains 
are only pictures of the imagination. 

A week after the occurrence just mentioned Enoch 
learned that one of his playmates was very ill. He 
went to see him and talked with him a long while. 

The very next week Enoch and many other chil- 
dren of the neighborhood were sick. It was found 
out that they all had measles. Enoch was very sick 
for over a week. He thought one' day that he was 
going to die. He turned his flushed face to the wall, 
and for the first time asked God to forgive his sins 
and spare his life. He soon recovered. 

In a few days Brother Gladys and Brother Eas- 
sell, a Presbyterian preacher, began a union pro- 


78 


THE PREACIIER’s SON. 


tracted meeting. The meeting began on Friday 
evening, and Enoch begged so earnestly that his 
father took him along. The sermon was long and 
tedious, and Enoch could not understand it. Very 
soon he fell asleep, and knew nothing more till his 
father tapped him on the head with his umbrella and 
told him that was a pretty example for a preacher’s 
son to set before other boys. 

Next day Enoch attended the service. His father 
preached a plain sermon from the text: “ Suffer little 
children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for 
of such is the kingdom of God.” Every sentence 
was simple enough for Enoch. He understood it and 
his heart was touched. When sinners were invited, 
Enoch went forward. He tried to pray, but he felt 
that everybody was looking at him. He knew he 
had often done wrong, and he had heard it said so 
often that “A preacher’s son is the meanest boy in 
the world,” that he really thought himself a worse 
boy than he was. 

When the service closed, he went home; but it 
seemed to him that everybody was looking at him 
and thinking, “You are a pretty boy to go to sleep 
in church and then go to the mourner’s bench.” 
That afternoon his heart was heavy. He felt like he 
would have given the world just to be able to tell 
somebody how he felt. Somehow he was ashamed to 
tell his father or mother how he felt or what his 
thoughts were. 

That night sister Gladys had to remain at home 
with the little girls. Enoch stayed with them for 
company. After talking awhile Sister Gladys picked 
up the Bible and read a Psalm, and then she, Enoch, 


BIG UPS AND LITTLE DOWNS. 


79 


and little Fannie knelt for prayer. Among other re- 
quests the mother asked God to bless her little boy 
and to give him a pure heart. Ah! that mother’s 
simple prayer gave the little “light seeker” more cour- 
age than anything that he had ever heard before. 
After prayer Sister Gladys called him to her side and 
explained everything that he was in doubt or igno- 
rant about concerning conviction and conversion. 
She then told him about the time when she, at thir- 
teen years of age, was converted at a settlement 
prayer-meeting. 

Enoch went to bed with a lighter heart than had 
beat in his bosom for many a day, but he was not 
happy nor satisfied. 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

HIS CONVERSION. 

O N the following morning Enoch awoke just as 
the sun peeped over the mountain beyond his 
window. He looked out, and all the world, even na- 
ture herself, seemed ready for rest and worship. He 
lay there and thought of everything bad he had ever 
done. He wanted to be a better boy. He wondered 
if converted boys could ever enjoy play any more. 
He wondered if people shout at church because reli- 
gion hurts them. He wondered if everybody would 
laugh at him and call him a “goody-goody boy.” 
Finally, as if summoning all his strength of mind 
and body, he wheeled out of bed with a determina- 
tion to continue seeking pardon, no matter what the 
world might say or think. That day he took his seat 
just one place from the altar. His father preached 
to the children from the text: “ Eemember now thy 
Creator in the days of thy youth.” The sermon, 
though simple enough for any child, was very power- 
ful, and had a wonderful effect on many of the peo- 
ple, old and young. After the sermon they sung: 
“Come, humble sinner.” Enoch was one of the first 
to present himself. After the song they had a prayer, 
then Brother Eussell led off on “ Pass me not, O gen- 
tle Saviour.” That song was Enoch’s prayer. His 
father saw that he was deeply affected, so he went to 
him and placing his hands on his head, said: “My 
darling boy, raise your little hands to Jesus. He will 
pull you out of sill.” 

( 80 ) 


HIS CONVERSION. 


81 


That was enough. Enoch rose, his face beaming 
with heavenly light, and throwing his arms around 
his father, he began singing with the others. 

Brother Bussell took Enoch in his arms and told 
him to never forget the dear Saviour who had done 
so much for him. 

Enoch felt that he was a changed boy. He had 
never been so happy. Turning to his father, he said: 
“ Papa, I want to join the Church.” 

“All right, my boy, in a minute,” said the father. 

Quite a number had been converted, and just be- 
fore dismissing Brother Gladys said: “We will now 
sing ‘Am I a soldier of the cross?’ and while we 
sing, if there are those present who desire to join the 
Church, they may come forward. Those who wish to 
join the Methodist Church may be seated on the 
bench at the right, and those who wish to join the 
Presbyterian Church may be seated on the bench at 
the left. Eight took the seat on the right, and five on 
the left.” Enoch, only nine years old, was the young- 
est on the Methodist bench. Taylor Tomlin, twelve 
years old, was the youngest on the Presbyterian 
bench. Brother Gladys, as all his had been baptized 
in infancy, proceeded to receive them into the Church. 
When he had finished. Brother Bussell went forward 
to receive his members, but just then Taylor’s moth- 
er reached across the bench and took him by the 
hand and told him he was too small to know what he 
was about. She w'as just in the act of leading him 
out, when little Enoch, with tears in his eyes, said: 
“ O don’t, Mrs. Tomlin, don’t; he is older than I, and 
you don’t know how happy it makes me feel to be- 
long to the Church.” His childish appeal was 
6 


82 


THE preacher’s SON. 


enough. Taylor’s mother withdrew her hand and 
wept at the thought of the mistake she had almost 
made. 

Enoch was no more ashamed. After service he 
shook hands with a great many people, and his little 
heart was full of love for everything and everybody. 

Sister Gladys was quite as happy as her little boy, 
for she felt that her prayer had been answered. But 
she knew that he would be tempted, and she resolved 
to watch over him carefully and help him to live as 
he should. 

Enoch was quite young, but he knew what he was 
about. He knew that he had been blessed and that 
his chief desire was to do right and lead a Christian 
life. 

There is no more critical time in the life of a 
Christian than just after conversion, and especially 
is this true of children. The child convert needs the 
prayers, the encouragement, and the direction of the 
older members of God’s family. 

We too often suspect that a child has not been 
converted because it can’t tell just exactly how it felt 
when it was converted, or because it can’t explain 
the difference between the way it felt before and aft- 
er conversion. What a sad mistake we make! Such 
were the difficulties which Enoch encountered. The 
members of Brother Gladys’s church, many of them, 
expected Enoch to be as grave as an old man. As it 
was, he loved fun and frolic as much as ever. I can 
see no reason why it should have been otherwise. 

Beligion was never intended to plow furrows in the 
cheeks of children. Sister Gladys was a very reason- 
able woman. She knew that a converted child is as 


HIS CONVEESION. 


83 


much a child as ever. She knew that her boy was 
all right and that all he needed was encouragement. 

About a week after Enoch joined the Church his 
father was away from home overnight. Sister Gladys 
had Enoch to read a chapter, and then she prayed. 
Proceeding gradually, she soon induced him to read 
the chapter and say the prayer. 

God bless the dear mothers ! they are the ones best 
fitted for feeding the lambs. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

DID HE FALL FEOM GRACE? 

E NOCH’S first temptation came only a couple of 
weeks from the time of his conversion. It was 
on a Sunday when Brother Gladys was away from 
home and was not expected back till Monday. 

Some of the neighbors were going to walk over to 
a little church about two miles away, to an all-day 
singing. Sister Gladys, with some reluctance, al- 
lowed Enoch to go with them; but told him to be- 
ware of the association of bad boys, and to return 
home early in the afternoon. He promised her that 
he would do everything she had requested. 

They had dinner on the ground. After dinner a 
crowd of boys passed along by where Enoch was 
standing, and one of them said: ‘‘ Come on, Enoch, 
let’s take a walk.” 

Enoch accepted the invitation, and they all went 
down the road about half a mile, then turned off 
through the woods to the creek, where they came to 
a halt. 

One of the boys said: “ O boys, I hadn’t thought 
about it; let’s go in bathing.” 

Several in a chorus said, “All right,” and began 
pulling off their clothes. 

Enoch knew that his parents had forbid his going 
in swimming on Sunday, so he sat down on a log to 
watch the other boys. 

The large boy who had proposed the swimming 
called out: “Hello, Enoch! Ain’t you a-comin’ in?” 
( 84 ) 


DID HE FALL FROM GRACE? 85 

“ No,” said the boy; “ papa and mamma don’t want 
me to go in swimming on Sunday.” 

“ Ha! ha! ha! ” yelled several boys, “what -will they 
ever know about it?” 

Enoch was very fond of swimming, and while he 
wished he was at homo, he imagined he could hear 
something saying: “Go in, boy, there is no harm in 
it.” But every time he would start to pull off his 
coat he imagined he could hear his mother calling 
him. 

There were about a dozen boys in the water, 
splashing and diving and laughing. Enoch didn’t 
know what to do. He ventured to pull off his coat, 
and immediately the large boy hallooed: “ Hurrah 
for Enoch! I knew he couldn’t miss the fun.” 

By that time the tempter had overcome Enoch, and 
he pulled off his clothes and plunged in. 

The boys didn’t notice how the time was passing 
till after awhile they heard the horses crossing the 
ford below, and by that they knew that the singing 
was over. They hurried out and began to dress. 
Some of the boys had slipped out and tied Enoch’s 
shirt sleeves in several hard knots, and pretended to 
tie some of the others in the same manner. 

Enoch came out a little behind the other boys, and 
just as he stooped over to pick up his clothes some 
boy threw a great handful of mud on his back and 
he was obliged to go back into the water to wash it 
off. The other boys hurried on with their clothes 
and started away. Enoch begged them to wait for 
him, but they told him he ought not to have stayed 
in so long. With that they all ran off and left him. 
He tried to put on his shirt, but his hands would not 


86 


THE PBEACHEE’S SON. 


go through the sleeves. Then he discovered the 
trick that had been played on him. He cried and 
pulled and tugged away for half an hour before he 
succeeded in untying the knots. When dressed, he 
turned away from the creek feeling as mean as a 
dog. He ran by the church to look for the crowd he 
had come with, but they had gone home a long time 
before. It was almost sundown, and he had over two 
miles to go. His heart beat like it would break out 
of his body. He ran and cried, then walked and 
cried. The sun went down before he was halfway 
home. He cried because he felt that he had done 
wrong, because he had deceived his mother, because 
he was afraid his father would hear about it and whip 
him, and because he was afraid to be out by himself 
after night. 

In the meantime Brother Gladys had unexpectedly 
returned home, and had learned from some of the 
neighbors who had attended the singing that Enoch 
had gone ofP toward the creek with a crowd of boys. 
He knew that Enoch would soon return, so he went 
down the road about a hundred yards and stopped in 
a little clump of bushes to await his coming. It was 
a very dark night; Brother Gladys could not see his 
hand as he held it before his face. He listened. 
Soon he caught the sound of Enoch’s rapid footsteps, 
and a minute later he heard him panting. Enoch 
had heard the owls hooting along the way, and like 
Ichabcd Crane had sung to drown the sound. Oc- 
casionally the leaves had rattled, and for a defense 
the boy had picked up two very large rocks, which 
he carried, one in each hand. Just as he was darting 
by the dark clump of bushes his father caught him 


DID HE FALL FROM GRACE? 


87 


and began to switch him quite lively. In his fright 
Enoch struck himself on the breast with one of the 
rocks; but he hardly noticed it, for the switch and 
the surprise and his conscience were about to finish 
him. Enoch went to the house a little in advance of 
his father, but he slipped in, for he was ashamed to 
meet his mother. After a supper which he scarcely 
tasted, he crept off to the little back room, said his 
prayer, and went to bed. Although he prayed ear- 
nestly for God to forgive him, he still felt mean. 

After Sister Gladys had put away the supper 
dishes she went into Enoch’s room and sat on the 
side of his bed. The poor boy was crying as if his 
heart would break. Sister Gladys put her hand on 
his burning forehead and pushed back his hair, then 
kissed him and told him that God would forgive him 
and that he must try to be a better boy. 

“Well, mamma,” sobbed the boy, “will God take 
my religion away from me because I got a whip- 
ping?” 

“No, no, my boy,” replied his mother; “God 
knows why your papa whipped you.” So saying, she 
kissed him good night and left his room. 

Enoch prayed again, and promised God that he 
would try harder than ever to be a good boy. Soon 
his exhausted mind and body were enjoying sweet 
repose. 

Mark the father’s reproof and the mother’s. The 
father chastised in love and not in anger; and “the 
mother’s reproving eye was moistened with a tear.” 
They were Christian parents. 

Somehow the neighbors learned of Enoch’s be- 
havior and punishment. In the neighborhood was a 


88 


THE preacher’s SON. 


family named Strange. Mr. Strange was not a mem- 
ber of any Church, but his wife was a Methodist. 
She had remarked several times since the meeting 
that she didn’t believe that Gladys child knew what 
he was about, that he was too young, and every time 
she would add: “I’m a Methodist, it is true, but I 
believe everybody should stay out of the Church till 
they are old enough to decide for themselves.” 

Mr. Strange heard his wife talking about Enoch’s 
behavior, and since he had done wrong and had a 
whipping about it Mrs. Strange was more emphatic 
in her assertion that the child was too young. 

Mr. Strange listened awhile, and then turning to 
his wife, he asked: “Margaret, why are you a Meth- 
odist? ” 

“Why, because — a — of course it is because — a — • 
ah! Mr. Strange, why do you ask me such a question 
as that? You know papa and mamma are Metho- 
dists, and it is perfectly natural that I should be a 
Methodist too.” 

“Ha! ha! You are in the same box with the 
preacher’s son; and if I were you, I wouldn’t say 
anything more. Margaret, find out why you are 
what you are.” His words were wise and timely; 
they no doubt made Mrs. Strange a quieter and a 
better woman. 

Near Brother Grady s’s was a family named Ste- 
phens. On Sunday morning, just one week from the 
day of the singing, Mr. Stephens stood before the 
mirror shaving. When he had finished, he picked 
up the blacking and brush and went to work on his 
shoes. A thought struck him; he stopped his brush 
and, raising his head, said to his wife: “Sarah, 


DID HE FALL FROM GRACE? 


89 


didn’t little Gladys get into it last Sunday? The 
young rascal should be ashamed of himself for going 
in swimming on Sunday.” 

Mrs. Stephens stepped to her husband’s side and 
said: “Yes, Charlie, he ought to be ashamed; he 
might as well have blacked his boots or shaved 1 ” 

Her words went home. 

The Christian religion has no stronger supporter 
than the man or woman who defends and encour- 
ages the babes in Christ. 


CHAPTEE XV. 

A CROWDED VEHICLE. 


B EOTHEE GLADYS remained at the last ap- 
pointment we mentioned for three years; then he 
was moved. Enoch’s associates were given up, and he 
was again cast among strangers. But somehow, like 
most children, he liked the idea of moving. 

They had to move that time about a hundred miles. 
There was a railroad on which they might have trav-- 
eled, but Brother Gladys had in three years saved 
fifty dollars, with which to buy his wife a sewing 
machine, and he couldn’t afford to spend it for tick- 
ets; besides, they had a buggy and horse. 

They at once arranged to make the trip through 
the country. The buggy had but one seat, and in 
order to make sitting room for all a quilt was spread 
in the back of the buggy. Enoch, Fannie, Statia, 
Fair, and Quimby sat on it. Brother Gladys and 
his wife sat on the seat, and the baby, little Tempa, 
sat in her mother’s lap. As may be observed, Quim- 
by and Tempa are new members in the Gladys fami- 
ly. Both are girls. 

The morning of their departure came, and a pic- 
ture they were. Father, mother, and six children in 
8- scarcely large enough for half that number. 

The five little ones at the back were crowded and 
uncomfortable, but somehow they lived through four 
days of tiresome travel over rocks and hills and 
mountains. 


( 90 ) 


A CROWDED VEHICLE. 


91 


On the last day of the journey Brother Gladys had 
to continue driving after dark in order to reach his 
destination, which was over three miles away when 
dark came on. It happened that the country was 
very sparsely settled, so that the last six miles of the 
way they had not a single house to pass. 

They had had'pleasant December weather all the 
way; but that night, when they were in greatest need 
of light and shelter, it began to rain in torrents. 
They had but one umbrella and it was a small one, 
and they had to use it over the least baby. Brother 
Gladys stopped his horse and took the quilt at the 
back of the buggy and spread it over the heads of the 
little ones. The four little girls were asleep, but 
Enoch helped his father to lift them off of the quilt. 
Just as they got everything fixed and started off, one 
of the fore wheels rolled over a large rock at the 
side of the road, and immediately every spoke in the 
other fore wheel broke off at the hub, and down they 
went with a crash. Mother, children, baby, and all, 
were thrown into the front end of the buggy. 

What was to be done? There they were three 
miles from a house, the night was as dark as pitch, 
they were all wet, and it was still pouring down rain. 
The four little girls, having been so suddenly aroused, 
were all crying as loud as they could. And there 
they were! 

“ Mr. Gladys, what in the world are we to do? ” said 
the good mother, nearly ready to cry herself. 

“I don’t know, Louise, but we can’t stay here all 
night in this fix, for the children, every one of them, 
would die of croup.” 

It was at once agreed that the mother and children 


92 


THE PREACHEll’S SON. 


should walk the rest of the way, and that Brother 
Gladys should put the hind wheels in the place of the 
fore ones, then put the remaining fore wheel on one 
end of the back axle and a pole under the other, so 
as to drag the buggy along. Sister Gladys led off 
wuth the baby in her arms, Enoch followed with Tem- 
pa, the three other girls came next, and Brother 
Gladys and the dragging buggy brought up the rear. 
The road was muddy and slippery, and it rained all 
the way. Brother Gladys, Sister Gladys, and Enoch 
prayed that the Lord would help them to reach shel- 
ter. 

At ten o’clock they saw a light break through the 
darkness. When they had neared it. Brother Gladys 
hallooed. It happened to be the home of Dr. Miller, 
one of the leading stewards on Brother Gladys’s new 
work. The doctor, who had just returned from a 
professional visit, had not retired. He came out and 
helped them into the house, then waked his wife 
and built a fire. Soon their clothes were dried 
and their snooper prepared. It was nearly twelve 
o’clock before they were ready to retire. There was 
not much rest for any of them. Sister Gladys had 
sick headache, Enoch had leg ache, Fannie had ear- 
ache, and two of the other little ones had croup. 

The next day the wagons came with their household 
goods. The preacher and his family were given a 
most hearty welcome at the neat little parsonage, and 
it was only a few days till they were all well and 
happy in their new home. 


CHAPTEK XVI. 

“BUDDIE, YOU ARE TOO GOOD FOR US.” 

S OON after they reached their new home Enoch 
was sent to town on an errand. There were a 
half dozen boys standing around the front of the 
store in which he stopped. When he came out, he 
hesitated a miuute to look at a boy dragging a fox 
hide along the street, preparatory to a sham race 
with some hound puppies. While he was looking, a 
great, rough boy walked up to him and, slapping 
him on the shoulder, asked: “Young man, are you 
the new preacher’s son?” 

Enoch timidly answered: “Yes, sir.” 

“Well,” said the rough boy, “I hope you are not 
as great a scamp as that last preacher’s boy we had 
here; for he told lies, stole tobacco, and would cry 
like a baby if any one shook a fist at him.” 

Enoch was “dumfounded” at such a sudden and 
peculiar acquaintance making, but forgetting his ti- 
midity he replied: “ Yes, sir, I am the preacher’s son, 
and, although I am not as good as I would like to be, 
I do hope you will find me a better boy than the one 
you have just described. Surely he must have kept 
bad company or he would have been a better boy.” 

“ Look ee here,” said the ruffian, “ do you mean to 
say that he was a scoundrel because he associated 
with us boys?” and as he said it his eyes flashed, and 
he clutched Enoch’s shoulder. 

“ Well, sir,” said Enoch with a brave voice, while 

( 93 ) 


94 


THE preacher’s SON. 


his body shook like a withered leaf, ‘‘ I mean to leave 
no impression but the truest and the best.” 

At that remark the crowd of boys looked at each 
other and winked; then the big boy said: “ Buddie, 
you are too good for common folks. Bun along home 
to your mammy and say your catechism.” 

Enoch looked him straight in the eye, and said: 
“ Yes, I will go home to mother, not because you tell 
me to do so, but because I know it is right that I 
should do so.” So saying, he turned his back on the 
set of cowards and their spokesman and walked 
bravely toward his home. 

When Enoch was fairly out of hearing, the large 
boy said to his companions: ‘‘Chums, that boy re- 
minds me of the preacher’s son that was here last 
year. He talks just like the other one did when he 
came. I’ll bet he’ll be a honey cooler when he 
leaves here; for these preachers’ sons have the mean- 
ness in them, and its obliged to work out sometime 
and somewhere.” 

It is to be hoped that Enoch chose other associates; 
for if the preacher’s son who had just moved away 
was the meanest boy in the world, Enoch knew where 
he got his meanness. 

Soon the preacher’s children started to school. 
The schoolhouse was a mile and a half from their 
home, over at the village where Enoch had gone on 
the errand a few days before. The parsonage stood 
where the town had once been, before a station was 
located on the new railroad, a mile and a half away. 
Dr. Millar, Col. Neuman, Judge Croker, and Mr. Bob- 
arts, all thrifty farmers, remained in the old town. 
Everybody else moved over to the new town on the 


“BUDDIE, YOU ARE TOO GOOD FOR US.” 95 

railroad. It seems that no one thought of moving the 
parsonage, and the four brethren who were Brother 
Gladys’s neighbors were so kind that he was glad 
enough to live near them. The only trouble was the 
walk to school. But who ever heard of it hurting a 
preacher s son and his little sisters to wade through 
water and sleet and snow to school? 

It is true that little Statia, though only eight years 
old, had suffered from nervous disease, but nobody 
outside of the family knew or thought about that. 

Fortunately, the winter was mild, and the teacher 
was a good one, one whose motto was: “A hand of 
steel in a velvet glove.” The children learned more 
in the few months before that school closed than any 
one might have expected. In June the school closed 
with a kind of concert. Enoch’s teacher told him 
that he must have a speech. Enoch told his father 
about it, and Brother Gladys abbreviated a chapter 
on “ Home,” in the “ Koyal Path of Life.” It was a 
very pretty and pathetic little speech, and Enoch 
learned to speak it well; but one night as he was 
rehearsing, he heard some of the large girls tittering 
about the preacher’s son’s little sermon for the con- 
cert. Enoch was very much hurt, and decided that 
his speech was not fit for a boy to say at a concert. 

Syster Gladys assured him that the girls were not 
making fun of him, and that his speech was very 
pretty. He took fresh courage and spoke his piece 
well. The prize that the teacher had offered for the 
best speech was awarded Enoch. It was a beautiful 
little book, “ Bible Stories,” by the Kev. Daniel Stev- 
enson, of the Kentucky Conference. Enoch was very 
proud of it, and read it through the very next day. 


CHAPTEE XVII. 


A DEAD BOY. 


HE first time Enoch was over at the village aft- 



er the concert, the same big boy who had 
slapped him on the shoulder six months before said 
to him: “Guess you feel purty big now, don’t ye? 
I wouldn’t a-had that little old book nohow, and be- 
sides you wouldn’t a-got it if the teacher hadn’t 
a-been a preacher and one of the judges a preacher.” 

“ Well,” said Enoch slowly, “ I am proud of the 
book, for it is a good one. I have read every word in 
it; and if you want to read it, I will bring it over and 
let you keep it awhile.” 

“ What’s it about? ” inquired the large boy. 

“ It’s about Samuel and David and Daniel and 
other Bible men.” 

“ Pooh ! ” replied the big boy. “ I ain’t got no time 
for such stuff. I like to read ^ Night Hawk Detect- 
ive,’ or ‘ Bully Boys on the Frontier,’ and all such.” 

Enoch turned away, for he was afraid to talk longer 
to this boy, who seemed so anxious to raise a fuss. 
The big boy never said a word till Enoch was fifty 
yards away, then he yelled: “ Go it, sugar pie; you 
are a duckie with a glass eye. Go home and pick up 
chips for your mammy all during vacation, and ride 
about with your daddy behind that old knock-kneed 
horse, and eat chicken pie while your daddy begs for 
money and old clothes.” 

Enoch never stopped nor looked around, but walked 


( 96 ) 


A DEAD BOY. 


97 


away faster without making reply. He was very in- 
dignant, and felt that he had been grossly insulted 
because the boy had called his father a beggar. The 
nearer Enoch got to his home the worse he felt, and 
when he lifted the rope hoop that fastened the front 
gate at his home he began to cry. He walked into 
the house, but seeing no one, he hushed crying and 
walked out into the little hall at the back of the 
room to get a drink. From the hall he saw his moth- 
er digging among the cabbage in the garden. As 
he saw her the tears rushed to his eyes and he start- 
ed to her. The nearer he got the louder he cried. 

Sister Gladys had on a very large bonnet, which 
came down over her ears and kept her from hear- 
ing Enoch till he was right at her. Putting a hand 
on her hip, she looked up and inquired excitedly: 
“ Why, Enoch, my boy, what on earth is the matter? ’* 

Enoch told her all about what had happened. She 
listened quietly, but any one might have known from 
the flush on her cheek that she was vexed. When 
Enoch had finished, his heart felt lighter; and when 
his mother told him such talk was not worth listen- 
ing to, Enoch took the hoe and finished the digging 
for his mother. 

Sister Gladys went into the house, for her head 
-w^as aching and her back felt as if it was about broken. 
She had not been in the house long when Brother 
Gladys rode up. He had been away several days at 
a distant part of the work. He hitched his horse 
and went into the house. After awhile Sister Gladys 
told him what the boy had said to Enoch. When 
she had finished speaking, he said: “ Well, Louise, it 
doesn’t amount to much, only I don’t like for people 
7 


98 


THE preacher’s SON. 


to talk to my boy like he was a dog. When I go to 
town to-morrow I will tell Brother Sterl how his son 
has behaved, but, remember, Enoch must never know 
that I have said a word about it.” 

The next morning Brother Gladys went over to 
town rather earlier than usual. He rode up to Mr. 
Sterl’ s store the first thing, for he wanted to get the 
unpleasant thing off of his mind. He hitched his 
horse and went in. After shaking hands with several 
who were in the store, he took the chair that was of- 
fered him and began to remark concerning the weath- 
er, the health of the people, and local affairs gen- 
erally. While they were thus engaged, a young man 
stepped in and handed Mr. Sterl a telegram, which 
he opened leisurely, for he supposed it was the quo- 
tation of cotton prices. No sooner had he opened it 
than he staggered backward and moaned: “ My God, 
my wayward boy 1 ” Then, dropping the telegram on 
the floor, he ran toward the depot without saying a 
word, for the passenger train, going in the direction 
from whence the telegram came, had just arrived. 

None of the men could imagine what was the mat- 
ter. They stood in the store door and watched Mr. 
Sterl jump on the train just as it was leaving. 
Brother Gladys picked up the telegram and read it 
aloud: 

“it. L. Sterl: Your son, who was supposed to have been 
stealing a ride on the freight train that passed through your 
town an hour ago, was instantly killed at this station five min- 
utes ago. Come. Jo. F. Perth.” 

That afternoon Mr. Sterl came back with the re- 
mains of his son. Both legs were cut off above the 
knees and the head was entirely severed from the 


A DEAD BOY. 


99 


body. The next morning they buried him. Brother 
Gladys preached, the funeral; and Sister Gladys, 
Enoch, and the little girls attended. 

That was a sad hour for every soul in the village, 
and especially was it sad for Enoch; he was grieved 
because he would never be able to tell the boy how 
freely he had forgiven him for the way he had talked 
to him. For a long time Enoch could not bear to look 
at the book the teacher had given him, for somehow he 
felt that if Sid Sterl had gotten it, and read it, maybe 
he would not have tried to run away and go to Texas. 
Several times at dead of night Enoch screamed out 
as he dreamed that a boy without feet or head was 
after him. Such fancies eventually wore away, and 
Enoch almost forgot the terrible affair. 

During June, July, and August Enoch spent his 
time at chopping stove wood, hoeing in the garden, 
going for the calves, trapping for birds, fishing, and 
playing. About twice a week he was sent to the 
post office to mail and get a letter from his grand- 
mother, and to get the Nashville Christian Advocate. 
He was alway delighted with the column headed 
“Miscellany,” and the articles on “ Natural History.” 

Brother Gladys promised Enoch that if he would 
read Genesis, Exodus, and Deuteronomy during the 
summer he would take him to the third quarterly 
meeting in September. 

Enoch tried to carry out his part of the agreement, 
but often he would pronounce the words in a whole 
chapter while he would be wondering what kind of 
boys were at Dean’s Chapel, where the meeting 
was to be held. Sometimes as he was reading he 
would find himself wondering if the watermelons 


100 


THE PEEACHER’S SON. 


would all be gone, and if Mr. Dean bad any pretty 
little girls about bis size, and if Mr. Dean’s little 
girls would like bim less or more because be was a 
preacher’s son. 

He always felt ashamed for having allowed bis 
mind to wander from what be was reading; but as bis 
time was limited, be didn’t possibly see how he could 
go over it. The fact is, Enoch read his Bible like 
many older people read theirs, just so they can say 
that they have read it. I wonder it such a person 
shall ever read this? 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 

GETTING READY FOR THE CAMP MEETING. 

L ouise, IVe a letter from Brother Lockhart, and 
he wants me to come and help him in their 
camp meeting at Spring Creek. I want to start to- 
morrow by daybreak, if I can,” said Brother Gladys 
on Eriday morning as he returned from the village, 
and he added: “I believe I will take Enoch with me 
now, instead of to the quarterly meeting. He would 
enjoy it better, and then he would be ready to start 
to school when it opens.” 

Sister Gladys looked up surprised, and said: 
‘‘Why, Mr. Gladys, Enoch hasn’t a decent coat to 
his name, and the last good pair of pants he has 
is full of holes. He has nothing but short woolen 
socks, which he can’t bear to wear in the summer; and 
besides, he has a stone bruise on his heel that is just 
getting well, and I don’t believe he can wear those 
shoes you have bought him, they are so large, and his 
hat is all out of shape. I don’t see, to save my life, 
how he can get off. If I had the cloth, I could make 
him a coat and some pants this evening. I could get 
Miss Mat to help me.” Then, after thinking a mo- 
ment, she continued: “Can’t you ride over to the 
village before dinner and get me some cloth? I can 
make a respectable suit out of most any kind of cheap 
cloth.” 

She received as a reply: “Louise, I have only fifty 
cents to my name, and I must save that to pay the 

( 101 ) 


102 


THE PREACHER S SON. 


ferryman, and you know that I will not go in debt for 
anything.” 

“ Well, Mr. Gladys, I hardly know what to do. I 
have used all your old clothes making them over for 
Enoch. I reckon he will have to stay at home and 
try to make some money with which to buy some- 
thing to wear to the Quarterly Conference. But I 
know the little fellow would enjoy it so much; hear 
him how lively he swings the ax and how merrily he 
whistles. I’ll tell you, Mr. Gladys, bring me that 
pair of brown jeans pants Sister Wilcox wove for you, 
I think you are about done with them, and I may be 
able to get a pair for Enoch out of them.” 

Brother Gladys went and brought the pants to his 
wife. They were threadbare on each knee. 

Sister Gladys measured and meditated; then said: 
“ Well, Enoch never wore a pair of knee pants in his 
life, but he will have it to do this time. Now what 
about a coat? Bring me that old broadcloth coat you 
sometimes wear a-fishing.” 

Brother Gladys went and got the coat for his wife. 
She soon decided that she could dodge the seams and 
make Enoch a coat. ‘‘ Now, Mr. Gladys, tell Enoch 
to run over after Miss Mat to come and help me 
sew this evening. Tell him that we are going to sew 
for him, and he will go in a hurry.” 

Enoch hardly waited to be told, till he went crow- 
hopping on one toe and the other foot over to Miss 
Mat’s. 

Miss Mat went over immediately, and agreed to 
make the pants. Sister Gladys was to make the coat 
and wash out a couple of shirts. Enoch was to get 
up enough stove wood to last till they should return. 


GETTING BEADY FOR THE CAMP MEETING. 103 

The little girls, Fannie and Statia, were to get a 
“snack of dinner.” Fair was to mind Quimby and 
Tempa, and Brother Gladys was to fix Enoch’s shoes 
and see about a hat for him. 

They all went to work, and a busier, merrier crowd 
was never seen. Enoch’s little heart was ready to 
overfiow with joy. He cut wood like a grown up man 
might have done, and every time he was summoned 
to try on his suit he went with a whistle and a bound. 

Miss Mat, in order to avoid the threadbare places, 
was obliged to make the pants about an inch too 
short, so they didn’t quite reach to his knees. Sis- 
ter Gladys had no pattern to cut the coat by except 
her own basque pattern, and in fixing the waist 
and bust she unintentionally made the coat so small 
that it would not button in front. She soon fixed 
that part all right by putting two little straps across 
the front, making them button at each end. The 
tail of the coat was the greatest trouble. The basque 
pattern caused the tail of the coat to come to a point 
behind, and when the two sides of the tail were 
sewed on they gaped open behind, and lapped over 
in front. Finally, after much ripping out and cut- 
ting off and sewing on, the coat was pronounced fin- 
ished. 

Brother Gladys, genius that he was, had resurrect- 
ed an old derby hat that he had worn three or four 
years before when he was on a half station. The 
crown of the hat was very high, and in order to make 
it look boyish, he cut it off about two-thirds from the 
top, and then pushed the top down over the other 
part, after the manner of closing a snuffbox. Then, 
replacing the band and sewing it down carefully, no 


104 


THE PREACIIEB’s SON. 


one could have told without looking inside of the hat 
that it had ever been cut down. That hat was what 
boys of to-day would call “ a stylish cut,” but at that 
time it looked exceedingly crestfallen. 

Enoch’s shoes were what is known as brogans, 
made of thick cowhide. The tops at the back were 
very sharp on the inside edge. Brother Gladys at 
once removed that trouble by beveling the edge with 
his pocketknife. 

Miss Mat spent the night with them. After sup- 
per Sister Gladys dressed Enoch from top to toe in 
his new suit, just to see how he would appear. 

New and unthought of troubles arose; the socks 
were so short that there ivas an intermission of sev- 
eral inches between sock leg and trouser leg, and the 
shoes were so hard that he could not walk in them 
at all. 

Sister Gladys, ever mindful of the happiness of 
her boy, soon fixed things by putting her own pair 
of snow-white, home-knit stockings on him, and then 
actually lending him her new, Sunday, side-laced, 
cloth shoes. 

You, dear reader, may have it in your mind that 
this child looked more like a clown than like a preach- 
er’s son, but I assure you there was something about 
his appearance that would have attracted attention 
anywhere. 

Little Statia, the only sickly child in the family, 
was always sorry to see the time come when her fa- 
ther was to go off from home. That night she was 
merry because all the others seemed so happy. She 
was very fond of music, and went to her papa’s book- 
case, got his army fife, brought it to him, and asked 


GETTING EEADY FOE THE CAMP MEETING. 105 

him to please play. He played a number of war 
tunes, then some of the “ l^ew Life ” and “ Sa- 
cred Harp” pieces; then Sister Gladys sang some- 
thing about “ Swinging in the Lane,” and Brother 
Gladys accompanied the song with fife music. Then 
he played and Sister Gladys, Miss Mat, Enoch, and 
Eannie sang “ Home, Sweet Home.” The other lit- 
tle ones had gone to sleep some time before. Poor 
little Statia had put her head against her papa’s 
knee and, clasping her hands together, had gone to 
sleep too, doubtless dreaming that her papa’s fiute 
was talking to the angels. Mrs. Gladys put her to 
bed; then they had prayers. Brother Gladys read a 
lesson from the third chapter of St. Luke. Enoch 
didn’t clearly understand what was meant by the 
“two coats,” but he felt satisfied that he had one 
coat, and that the Bible injunction was at least half- 
way applicable to him. 

There were only two bedrooms to the parsonage. 
Brother Gladys and Sister Gladys and Enoch occu- 
pied one, and Miss Mat and the little girls occupied 
the other. Long after the lights were extinguished 
Enoch’s eyes were still wide open and his imagina- 
tion was making pictures of the camp ground and of 
the people. 

Finally he came to the conclusion that the night 
would seem shorter if he would sleep, so he tried 
Miss Mat’s plan of counting, “ One sheep, two sheep, 
three sheep,” and before he got to “ fifty sheep ” he 
was sound asleep. 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

ON THE WAY TO CAMP MEETING. 

I T seemed to Enoch that he had hardly dozed 
when he heard from an adjoining room, “ Enoch, 
son, get up; it’s daylight,” whereupon he bound- 
ed out of bed and began to prepare for the trip. 

Breakfast was soon dispatched, and father and son 
seated themselves in the buggy and started toward 
Spring Creek. It was a bright, windy morning, and 
as the coat tails of father and son flapped behind the 
buggy Sister Gladys remarked to Miss Mat: “Enoch 
grows more like his papa every day.” The most 
careful observer could not have found any resem- 
blance, except between the coat tails, which were 
both “Prince Alberts.” Eev. Gladys had the ap- 
pearance that morning of an ordinary circuit rider, 
but despite his great work and small pay, his low 
body had become moderately corpulent. His beard 
and hair were black and his eyes were blue. Enoch’s 
hair was nearly white, it was sandy; his eyes were 
steel gray, and his aquiline nose was not like his 
father’s or his mother’s. A few old people who re- 
membered his great-grandfather Atkins said that 
Enoch was very much like him. But when Sister 
Gladys saw their clean-brushed coat tails flapping in 
the wind that morning, she imagined a striking re- 
semblance between the man and the boy. 

The road was dusty and soon the sunshine was 
warm. Brother Gladys had no umbrella with him, 
( 106 ) 


ON THE WAY TO CAMP MEETING. 


107 


for he had loaned his to Mrs. Pelham, the wife of the 
class leader at Grove Oak Church. The loan had 
been made three weeks before, on a rainy day when 
Mrs. Pelham was suffering with rheumatism; but 
the umbrella had not been returned, and in fact it 
was lost and never returned. Brother Gladys didn’t 
have the money to spare for another, so he was com- 
pelled to do all his traveling that summer without an 
umbrella. 

Enoch thought that day was the warmest he had 
ever felt, and no doubt it was to him, on account of 
the heavy coat he wore. He spent the time of the 
journey watching the wheels turn, admiring his 
(mother’s) shoes, and perspiring. Occasionally he 
would forget and wonder why the horse’s hind feet 
didn’t step on his fore feet. 

Brother Gladys drove along in a mechanical way 
while he studied his sermon. The only thing that 
relieved the monotony of the trip happened just be- 
fore they reached the camp ground. An idea struck 
Brother Gladys: he would repeat one of his sermons 
and get Enoch’s opinion of it. He communicated 
the idea to his son and began his sermon. His text 
was: “And after death the judgment.” He became 
so much interested in his sermon that he failed to 
notice Enoch, who had leaned his head against the 
back of the buggy seat and had fallen sound asleep 
before his father was half through the sermon. The 
father preached on, and the son slept on. Finally 
the time came for the sermon to close, and Brother 
Gladys, in his description of the unfortunate soul, 
screamed: “Lost! lost! lost!” 

The cry awoke Enoch, and frightened him so that 


108 


THE preacher’s SON. 


he jumped from the seat and yelled: “ Where are we, 
papa? where are we?” 

Strange to say, Brother Gladys didn’t suspect that 
the boy had been asleep, but thought that the ser- 
mon had a most powerful effect upon him. He 
caught Enoch by the arm, and said: “ Why, Enoch, 
my darling, sit down.” 

Enoch, not knowing how much favor he had 
gained in his father’s sight, took his seat and began 
to reflect. After awhile it came to him that he went 
to sleep while listening to a sermon. 

Brother Gladys said nothing for several minutes. 
He was wondering if his sermon would have the same 
effect on a congregation that it had on his boy. He 
asked: “Enoch, what made you jump so?” 

Enoch was ashamed to look into his father’s eyes. 
He looked down to the buggy track in the sand, and 
said: “Papa, I was asleep, and you scared me.” 

Brother Gladys frowned and said: “You little 
scamp! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself? ” 

Not another word passed between them till the 
journey ended, but all along Brother Gladys 
chuckled to himself when he thought of the good 
joke his boy had unwittingly played on him. When 
the camp ground was reached. Brother Gladys drove 
up to Mr. Bar cliffs tent. It was just after dinner, 
and a great crowd of people had assembled around 
the tent door. There were men, women, and children 
in the crowd. Enoch noticed two pretty little girls, 
whom he supposed were the daughters of Mr. Bar- 
clift, the little girls he had heard his father speak of 
so often. That was Enoch’s first experience at 
noticing girls from any other standpoint than that of 


ON THE WAY TO CAMP MEETING. 


109 


being partners in a playhouse. And even then as he 
looked at the little stranger, Lizzie Barclift, with 
her auburn ringlets glistening under the rays of sun- 
light that were stealing through the old oak by the 
tent, his heart fluttered, and a feeling, such as all 
boys have when the era of “noticing” first dawns 
upon them, crept over him. 

Brother Gladys said: “Son, this is our stopping 
place; jump out.” 

Enoch, whose gaze had not been taken from the 
little stranger, heeded his father’s words, but did 
not notice wdiat he was doing. In consequence of 
his absent-mindedness his foot slipped from the 
wheel and he fell, but his long coat tail caught be- 
tween the whip holder and the dashboard and left 
him dangling. What a picture! His coat tail higher 
than his head, his shirt pulled up till it looked like a 
blouse, and his pantaloons drawn so high that two or 
three inches of his little brown thighs were visible. 
The blue calico strings that his mother had substi- 
tuted for garters were visible, and his quaint derby 
hat rolled to the bench where Lizzie Barclift was sit- 
ting. Brother Gladys quickly let him down to the 
ground. Two or three men who had run up to hold 
the horse inquired if the boy was hurt, while Lizzie 
picked up the hat, brushed it, and* handed it to 
Enoch. He wanted to thank her, but he knew that 
if he uttered a word he would cry, so he never opened 
his mouth. 

One of the Barclift boys took charge of the horse 
and buggy, and Brother Gladys and Enoch went to 
dinner. After dinner Brother Gladys left Enoch 
with the other children while he went off to talk to 


110 


THE preacher’s SON. 


the preachers. Enoch soon became acquainted and 
felt much at home; but somehow as the acquaint- 
ance grew he ceased to admire Lizzie more than the 
other girls. Such flights of fancy among boys is 
common, and leaves the noticer ” feeling none the 
worse. 


CHAPTEE XX. 

AT THE CAMP MEETING. 



IHE next day, Sunday, was to be the big day of 


J- the occasion. A large number of preachers had 
already arrived, and a larger number were expected 
that afternoon. Among those who had arrived was a 
young circuit rider who had come from his work just 
over in Georgia. When it was announced that this 
young brother was to preach, an old member said it 
would never do; it would chill the meeting; that he 
talked too plain. However, he preached, and Enoch 
heard a great many comments on what Brother Jones 
said about some preachers and their wives quarreling 
about the time for holding family prayers. Enoch 
had, of course, always heard his father praised; and 
when he heard people saying naughty things about 
Brother Jones, a preacher, he wondered if Brother 
Jones’s sons were not worse than other preachers’ 


sons. 


The morning Brother Jones left he gave Enoch a 
nickel to black his boots. Enoch did the work well; 
and when he had finished. Brother Jones took his 
hand and said: ‘‘God bless you, my boy! May you 
make a great and good man!” At that time Brother 
Gladys came up, and Brother Jones remarked to 
him: “ Gladys, your boy has a fine head. Give him a 
chance, and he will make his mark.” 

Brother Gladys bowed, smiled, and said: “Thank 
you, my brother. I shall do all in my power for him.” 

Brother Jones went away, but Enoch never forgot 


( 111 ) 


112 


THE PKEACHEE’s SON. 


the parting “God bless you.” It always made him 
love Brother Jones. 

But to return to the Sabbath service. The presid- 
ing elder preached at eleven o’clock, and just before 
concluding his sermon he urged all the preachers to 
be diligent in searching out and encouraging those in 
their several works who had been called to preach. 
This thought at once lodged in Enoch’s mind, and 
made him wonder if the Lord wanted him to be a 
preacher. 

At the conclusion of the service it was announced 
that there would be grove meetings at four o’clock: 
one for the women over near the graveyard, and one 
for the men down by the spring. Enoch got the di- 
rections mixed, and about four o’clock started toward 
the graveyard to attend the grove meeting. In an 
absent-minded way he went within a few yards of 
fifty ladies who were engaged in worship. He would 
have gone still nearer, but was startled by three la- 
dies who simultaneously began shouting. Seeing his 
mistake, he turned to go back to the camp ground, 
but within twenty steps of him were a number of la- 
dies coming toward the grove. He didn’t want to 
meet them; and, as the bushes were thick all along 
the wayside, he darted out of the path and ran away, 
parting the small bushes in front of him, and occa- 
sionally looking back. The first thing he knew he 
dashed right into the midst of nearly a hundred men 
kneeling in silent prayer. 

One old man opened his eyes, and asked: “Buddie, 
what on the green earth ails you?” 

Enoch, with much fear and trembling, replied, 
“ Nothing,” and took a seat on a log near by. 


AT THE CAMP MEETING. 


113 


After the service closed the old mau asked Enoch 
his name. Enoch told him, and the man said: *‘Look 
’ere, young feller; you’re a preacher’s son, an’ you 
musn’t set the example of runnin’ rabbits on Sun- 
day.” 

Enoch’s face flushed, but he made no reply. 

On Sunday night the camp ground was crowded, 
and it was feared that there would not be bed room 
for all, but by crowding them soldier fashion all 
were soon accommodated. Brother Gladys slept at 
the ‘‘preachers’ tent,” as it was called, but it was the 
old church that was used in the winter when too cold 
to have preaching under the “bush arbor.” 

Enoch was left at Mr. Barclift’s tent. Saturday 
night he had slept on a pallet with one of the Bar- 
clift boys in the family room; but on Sunday night 
there was such a crowd that bedclothes could not be 
spared for a pallet, and Enoch was sent into the big 
tent to sleep with the men. In this tent the bed con- 
sisted of four mattresses side by side, touching, 
placed on a temporary bedstead fifteen feet wide and 
six feet long. In this bed Enoch was to sleep with 
fourteen men. All the men were strangers, gay 
young fellows who had come to the camp meeting to 
flirt with silly girls, trade pocketknives, and eat 
roasted meats. 

Enoch was so timid before the crowd that he 
pulled off only his hat, coat, and shoes, and crawled 
into the middle of the bed. They had all been in 
bed and the lights had been out only a few minutes, 
when some young man asked: “ Say, who’s that pull- 
ing the cover off of me? ” 

No one made answer. 

8 


114 


THE preacher’s SON. 


Presently some one on the other side of Enoch 
asked the same question. 

The boy next to Enoch said: “Hush, boys, and 
let’s go to sleep; we don’t need any cover.” 

After all had been quiet a few minutes, the same 
voice that had called out at first said: “Boys, the 
mosquitoes are after me, and I want that fellow, who- 
ever he is, to quit pulling the cover.” 

When he had hushed, the boy next to Enoch on 
the left said: “It’s this boy here in the middle.” 

Enoch trembled, but said nothing. He was afraid 
to speak, yet he knew it was impossible for him to 
pull a sheet that was four or more feet from him. 

When the boy at Enoch’s left had accused him, the 
one to whom he had spoken replied: “What! is it 
that little frock-tail-coat fellow who came in awhile 
ago.” 

“ Yes, yes,” resounded the two voices next to Enoch, 
on either side. 

“Well,” said the first speaker, “when I count 
three, let every fellow turn toward the middle of the 
bed, and we will mash that country tack as flat as a 
board.” 

He began to count: “One, two” — but before he 
got to three, Enoch bounded out of the bed and, 
snatching his hat, coat, and shoes, darted out of the 
door. 

He sat down on the straw in the hall and put on 
his shoes, then he got up and put on his coat and 
hat. He listened, but all was quiet in the room he 
had just vacated, except now and then he thought he 
could hear a muffled laugh. 

It was very dark. The stray clouds that had been 


AT THE CAMP MEETING. 115 

moving toward the south all the afternoon had col- 
lected into one great black mass. 

Enoch felt his way to the tent door. A gust of 
wind brought big drops of rain into his face. He 
moved back a few steps and through his tears peered 
into the darkness, and wondered what to do. He 
wished so much that he was at home with mother 
and the little girls. He wondered if those boys had 
driven him out because he was a preacher’s son. As 
he stood there crying, meditating, and wondering, a 
flash of lightning revealed the church, or “preachers’ 
tent,” a few paces away. He at once made up his 
mind to go over and steal into his father’s bed. His 
idea of distance, aided by the lightning, enabled him 
to reach the tent. He crept noiselessly in through 
the half-open door and stood listening. There were 
half a dozen or more beds, all on the floor; and on 
each bed were two tired preachers, every one of them 
enjoying that sweet sleep that God gives so many of 
his noble Christian workers. Enoch’s keen and anx- 
ious ear soon detected the corner of the room from 
which emanated a familiar snore. Another flash of 
lightning and he reached his father’s bed. He only 
took time to pull off his hat. Quietly, almost breath- 
lessly, he lay down by his father’s side, and was soon 
sound asleep and as happy as the hunted fawn when 
it reaches its mother’s side. Brother Gladys thought 
Enoch had come to him because there was not room 
for him elsewhere. 

Enoch was really glad when the meeting closed and 
he reached home again. 


CHAPTEE XXL 

ATTEMPT AT SERMON WRITING. 

I T is as natural for a boy to have his father’s dis- 
position as it is for him to have his father’s fea- 
tures. No wonder then, that Enoch, a child of thir- 
teen, was constantly thinking of what the preacher 
said at the camp meeting about people who feel it 
their duty to preach the gospel. 

On Enoch’s birthday, as he sat looking out of the 
schoolhouse window, watching the golden leaves rus- 
tle amid the late September winds, he suddenly de- 
cided that he would try to write a sermon; and if he 
succeeded, he would spend all his spare time, till he 
was grown, writing sermons, in order to have a large 
stock on hand ready to begin his life work at twenty- 
one. He had in his pocket one of Dr. Pierce’s 
“Memorandum and Account Books,” he took it out, 
sharpened a piece of lead — which he had molded in 
in a cane joint — as a substitute for a pencil, and be- 
gan to wonder what to use for a text. He thought 
and thought and thought, and after awhile recalled 
a verse which the teacher had read that morning. It 
was the ninth verse of the sixth chapter of Gala- 
tians. This verse he took for a text; and as I am so 
fortunate as to be in possession of this old faded 
memorandum, I will quote the child’s sermon, which 
is word for word as follows: 

We take as a subject upon which we will try to talk, the 
ninth verse of the sixth chapter of Galatians: “And let us not 
( 116 ) 


ATTEMPT AT SEEMON WKITING. 117 

be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap if we 
faint not.” 

Let us first consider what good we might do in the church or 
in Christ. And the thought uppermost in my mind just now, is, 
that we might all do vastly more good than we do. And every 
one knows that when we do good we are not made weary by it, 
but are encouraged to do better, especially is this true if we 
have persuaded some fellow creature to love the Lord. Sach 
good deeds make us feel that we are the servants of God, and 
that our hearts are full of love for Christ and for all mankind. 

We are blessed according to our works, very largely, and if 
we are faithful unto death we shall reap a big reward of all the 
good we have done during our lives, and just as the workman is 
paid after the work is done, so we, who are Christians, are to 
be rewarded when life has ended. How this thought cheers us 
along the walk of life and fits our minds for heaven ! 

As a dead man cannot inherit an estate, no more can a dead 
soul inherit eternal life. 

What is meant in the text by “ if we faint not ” is : if we do 
not die in Christ, that is, if w'c do not turn away from the ways 
of Christ, seeking worldly pleasure rather than to work in 
Christ’s holy vineyard ; gathering the fruit into the fold. 

Just at that time Prof. Clements called the arith- 
metic class, of which Enoch was a member, and dis- 
turbed the sermon writer. After failing in his reci- 
tation, he decided to study his lessons by day, and to 
write sermons by night. That afternoon Enoch hur- 
ried home and did uj) all his work before supper. 
After supper he seated himself in front of his father’s 
bookcase — I could hardly call it a library, for it 
only consisted of three box tops nailed against the 
wall — and began to try to recall the thread of his ser- 
mon. He had seen his father read a great deal from 
a certain big book, and he believed it must be a 
preacher helper, so he took it down and began to 
turn the leaves. 


118 


THE PKEACHER’s SON. 


Brother Gladys was very busily engaged reading 
over one of his sermons for the following Sunday, 
and failed to take any notice of the boy’s work. - 
The book was “ Foster’s Prose Illustrations.” 
Enoch did not know how to find an illustration to 
suit his subject, and he was afraid to bother his fa- 
ther with it. Presently an illustration met his eye 
that seemed to suit him, and he continued his sermon. 
He said: 

Happiness is not the end of life; character is. This life is 
not a platform where you may hear Thalberg — Piano playing.' 
It is a Piano manufactory, where are dust and shavings and 
boards, and saws and files and rasps and sand papers. The 
perfect instrument and the music will be hereafter, that is, in 
heaven, and none will be enabled to hear it except such as 
have held out faithful. 

Death strikes the bod)^ unexpectedly, as a robber forces open 
the door of a house by night that he may obtain the treasure 
that lies therein. If the soul’s life has been hid with Christ in 
God, before the last assault the spoiler will be disappointed of 
his prey, for the soul has been faithful. It did not faint, but 
was alive in God and hid from the lust of the world. 

It is written: “For every man shall bear his own burden. 
And he that soweth of the flesh shall of the flesh reap corrup- 
tion. But he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit reap 
life everlasting. For the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, 
longsuficring, gentleness, goodness, and faith, and if we live in 
the Spirit let us walk in the Spirit.” 

If a tree is not growing it is sure in the long run to be dying. 
So it is with our souls: If they arh not growing they are dying. 
If they are not getting better they are getting worse. This is 
the reason the Bible compares our souls to trees: not out of a 
mere pretty fancy of poety, but for a great, deep, awful, world- 
wide lesson that every tree in the field may be a pattern— a 
warning to thoughtless men and women. As the tree is meant 
to grow, so our souls are meant to grow, and as the tree dies 
unless it grows, so our souls must die unless they grow. 


ATTEMPT AT SERMON WRITING. 


119 


Let us ask ourselves, What is meant by the growth of the 
soul? It is its growth in Christ, and its love of Christ’s cause. 
It is the tendency of the soul’s complete willingness to labor in 
the Master’s vineyard. 

By the death of the soul is meant its decline from Godly 
things. Its returning to the beggardly element of the world. 
Its embracing the sin that turns it from the Saviour’s breast. 
What an awful Judgment it will be to those who are not finally 
faithful. I verily believe that the lowest hell is kept in reserve 
for back-slideis. 

I cannot see how a right-minded man could once taste of the 
love of God and then turn away from it. Our religion is some- 
thing that will last through life and make us happy all the time. 
It will do more for us than a million worlds like this could do. 

Every man should do all the good in his power. If one is 
not a professed Christian he may become so by well doing. 

A good rule of right living is embraced in the following: 
Read the Bible, go to church, feed the hungry, help the poor, 
and be continually on the lookout for something good to do. 
Let us not grow weary if we Liil in some undertaking; let us 
be patient— for patience is a greater virtue than energy. 

Constant well doing makes the faith grow brighter and re- 
veals in our hearts the glory and beauty of the heaven we hope 
to attain. Continued we shall reap the great reward that heav- 
en alone can give. As the racer has to run to the end to gain 
the prize, so the Christian must run to the end of life— to the 
end of the Christian race— before he can enter the gate or gain 
the crown. 

That we may not be weary in well doing, but keep on work- 
ing for the Lord and faint not, but reap an exceeding great re- 
w’ard, is my prayer. 

This little sermon I have quoted as I find it, and 
the remembrance of the child’s age and environment 
make me quite overlook his logical and rhetorical in- 
accuracies. 

The little memorandum contains several scraps of 
writing beside the sermon, and they reveal the child 
mind so perfectly that I quote them: 


120 


THE PKEACHER's SON. 


No. of lbs. of cotton picked by Enoch Gladys for Mr. Weaver 
56 - 60 - 58 - 70 - 63 . 

On the following page is an unfinished letter: 

Miss Lizzie, — 

I fear you will think me bold for a youth but I must confess 
to that I — 

On another page: 

It is my time to stay all night with Austin, and Reeves’ time 
to stay all night with me. 

And at the foot of the page: 

Swapped knives three times to-day (Tuesday) got cheated 
once. 

On the last page are fragments of two songs, one: 

Say, darkies has you seed ole massy, 

Wid a mustache on his face. 

He leP his home some time dis mornin’ 

Like he gwine to quit de place. 

The other: 

I had a little cousin once. 

His name was Harry Lee, 

And every night he said his prayer 
Beside his mother’s knee. 

On the front side of the book is written in a child’s 
irregular hand: 

Mr. Enoch Gladys, his book. 

On the margin of one of the sermon pages is: 

Mamma baked me a cake and Statia gave me a handker- 
chief on my birthday. 

On another margin is a list of things that were to 
be gotten for Christmas gifts for the various mem- 
bers of the family. I put the memorandum aside 


ATTEMPT AT SERMON WRITING. 121 

thinking as you doubtless think: God bless Enoch 
and all the little boys. Their minds, pockets, and 
memoranda are full of a little of everything and not 
much of anything. Yet they are dear little boys — • 
men in miniature. Their nails and strings to them 
are what bank notes are to men. 

Enoch was glad when he had finished his sermon, 
for he found it a tougher task than he had antici- 
pated. As time passed he quite forgot his resolution 
to write sermons during all his spare time. 


CHAPTEE XXII. 


A CHRISTMAS EGGNOG 
UEING the few weeks that remained until 



Christmas, Enoch’s time was spent just as other 
boys would have spent their time. But Christmas 
morning came, and with it a never to be forgotten ex- 
perience. 

Tom Darter, a grown young man who was living 
with one of Brother Gladys’s neighbors, spent the 
night with Enoch; and when he started home to 
breakfast next morning, he asked if Enoch might be 
allowed to take breakfast with him. 

Now Brother Gladys had heard that the foiks 
where Tom lived were accustomed to have something 
to drink on Christmas morning, so he told Tom that 
Enoch had better breakfast at home. But Tom, anx- 
ious to have Enoch go along with him, made excuse 
that he wanted Enoch to help him eat sausage and 
spareribs. 

Brother Gladys said: “ Now, Enoch, if I let you go, 
you must promise me that you will not touch a drop 
of eggnog.” 

“ Well, sir, I won’t,” was Enoch’s reply. 

When the boys reached Tom’s home, breakfast was 
ready and so was the eggnog. A large glassful was 
by the side of each plate when they sat down to 
breakfeast. The father, mother, daughters, and Tom 
took their spoons and began to sup the eggnog the 
first thing. Enoch was confused, but sat silently 
watching the others. 


( 122 ) 


A CHRISTMAS EGGNOG. 123 

Presently the lady of the house asked: “ Enoch, 
why don’t you driuk your ’nog?” 

Although the child had never seen any before, and 
really did not know the smell of whisky, he answered: 
‘‘ Because I do not love it.” 

Tom explained matters by saying: “Mr. Gladys 
does not allow his children to drink eggnog.” 

The mother turned to one of her daughters and said-.* 
“Jennie, take Enoch’s glass and get him some that 
has no whisky in it.” 

Jennie took the glass, and as she passed out of the 
dining room her mother gave her a mischievous wink. 
She went into the kitchen and busied herself as 
though preparing an “ unspiked glass.” Soon she 
returned with the same glass and the same contents, 
and placed it beside Enoch’s plate. 

Enoch asked Tom if he thought his father would 
object to his taking a little without whisky. 

Tom, not knowing of the secret between mother 
and daughter, said that his father would not object. 

Enoch slowly lifted the glass to his mouth, tasted 
the contents, and soon drank it down. He liked it so 
well that when the others had their glasses filled he 
consented to a half glass more. When he had fin- 
ished the half glass, a strange sensation came over 
him. The house top seemed falling in, the knives 
and forks were hopping around in his plate, the cup 
and saucer was dodging when he undertook to pick 
them up. When he tried to drink coffee, he put the 
spoon to his nose instead of his mouth. Tipsy as he 
was, he had sense enough to know that he was in a 
bad plight, and that the lady and her daughter had 
played an ugly joke on him. 


124 


THE PREACHEE’S SON. 


He could not eat, for his plate would not be still. 
Finally he quit trying, and took hold of both sides of 
his chair to support himself. His head nodded 
slightly, and he trembled so inucli that he shook the 
entire table. By that time all eyes were turned on 
him, and he began crying. ‘‘Boo — hoo — hoo! You — 
have — m ade — me — drunk — and — papa — will — whip 
— me — and — mamma — will — not — love — me — any — • 
more — ’cause — she — never — loves— those — who — 
drink.” 

The mother was very much amused and the girls 
were tittering behind their napkins. Tom was 
alarmed, for he felt that he would be held account- 
able because he had asked and begged for Enoch to 
breakfast with him. 

The father, who sat in silence, was recalling the 
scenes of other days, when his only son died from a 
cold contracted while on a drunken spree. He 
pushed aside his second glass, which was not more 
than half full, and for perhaps the twentieth time re- 
solved never to touch whisky again. 

Tom, in his excitement, took Enoch in his arms 
and carried him out in the back yard. 

Fortunately, the boy had not taken very much 
whisky, and soon after he reached the cold, crisp 
morning breeze his head quit jerking, and before 
long he could stand on his feet. But his breath! 
What would father say? What would mother do? 

Uncle Dan, an old negro who lived in a cabin in 
the back yard, saw Tom carrying Enocli out of the 
house, and hobbled out to ascertain the cause, in- 
quiring: “Lorzy massj^ Mars Tom, what’s ailin’ de 
preacher’s leetle son? ” 


A CHRISTMAS EGGNOG. 


125 


Tom knew that Uncle Dan could be trusted with a 
secret, so be replied: “ O, nothing, Uncle Dan, except 
a little Christmas fun.” 

“Yas, yas, yas, I un’erstan’s,” said Uncle Dan. 
“ Ole Miss ha’ been ’noggin him a leetle, but ’pears 
to me she orter got a lesson f’om de way Massa Wil- 
lie tuck en died.” 

“Uncle Dan,” asked Tom anxiously, “ what can 
I do to keep Enoch’s breath from smelling? ” 

“ Wy, wy, wy, ezy ez dirt; jes take ’im out in de 
apple orchid an’ let ’m run tell he gits peart an’ warm, 
den you clum ober de fents an’ git sum buds oaten de 
pine bush an’ let de chile chaw um an’ spit um out 
an’ swaller de juice; an’ ef dat doan fetch ’im ’roun’, 
den let ’im blow he breff on he hat nine times, an’ 
den gin ’im two glasses of sweet milk, an’ I betcher 
he’ll be ready fur gwine to he maw.” 

When Uncle Tom had finished prescribing, he 
turned around and limped toward his cabin door, 
saying to himself: “Po’ ole Miss; her is so inconsist- 
able, her mout know dat ’cordin’ to de new discon- 
spensation, no drunka’d can git frew de beautifer 
gol’n gate ob de city ob Jerryusellem; her mout know 
dat dar warn’t no salivation for po’ Massa Willie. 
Hit war only yisteddy dat I heerd her pittyin’ Miss 
Gladys ’bout her bad boy, an’ now here her is a-mak- 
in’ de po’ chile wusser ’an he ever war.” Then, rolling 
his big white eyes toward the sky, he continued: 
“ Lor’ bless ’an pitty all sich az iz egnerint ’bout sper- 
italness.” 

Tom had Enoch adhere strictly to Uncle Dan’s di- 
rections. First, he ran through the orchard, back- 
ward and forward, till he nearly had no breath at all; 


126 


THE preacher’s SON. 


then he chewed half a hatful of pine buds and 
gulped down the juice; after which he inhaled a lot 
of dust from his old hat, and finished the dose by 
drinking two glasses of “ blue John.” The sweet milk 
had all been strained into the churning while Enoch 
was eating pine tops. 

As Tom and Enoch, an hour afterward, started back 
over to Brother Gladys’s, Uncle Dan stuck his gray, 
woolly head out at the cabin door, and said; “ Honey, 
I tole ye dat;would fetch ’im roun’.” 

Eor a great wonder Enoch’s parents detected noth- 
ing wrong, and for a greater wonder no one let the 
secret out. Hence Enoch was spared the thrashing 
he would have no doubt received. 

I expect the reader agrees with me that somebody 
older than Enoch deserved punishment. 


CHAPTEE XXIIL 


AN UGLY FIGHT. 


HEISTMAS week and New Year’s Day were 



soon in the past. As the springtime came on 
Enoch’s parents and teacher saw that he was afflicted 
somewhat with laziness, but they thought none the 
less of him on that account. He had just reached 
the age at which boys’ voices begin to thicken, and 
girls stump their toes and eat green plums. Not- 
withstanding Enoch’s laziness, Prof. Clements had 
kept him moving along in his classes. 

The craze for marble playing had caused all the 
boys to lay aside their balls and bats. The boy who 
was fortunate enough to own a middle man and two 
taws found it an easy matter to get a partner to fur- 
nish the ring men and get up a game. Enoch, being 
a shrewd trader, soon owned a dozen taws, two dozen 
ring men, and eight “ middlers.” 

There was one marble that every boy in school 
wanted. It was a very large glass “middler.” 
Enoch, by making a combination trade, came into 
possession of the coveted ‘‘middler.” The trade 
consisted of an exchange of shoe strings, hat linings, 
and handkerchiefs, besides Enoch gave a dozen mar- 
bles to boot. After school Enoch was passing the 
tanyard on his way home. He had his hat full of 
marbles and was rattling them as he walked along. 
Alf Thompson, a young man working at the yard, 
hailed Enoch, saying: “Hold on, boy; let’s see your 
marbles.” 


( 127 ) 


128 


THE preacher’s SON. 


As Enocli was showing them to him, Al£ snatched 
the large one — Enoch’s pride — and put it in his 
pocket. Enoch begged and begged him for it, but 
he would not give it up. He only rei)lied: “A 
preacher’s son should not cheat all the little boys out 
of their marbles, and for that reason I will keep this 
one.” Enoch begged, and even cried, but Alf would 
not give it up. Enoch said nothing about it at home 
that night, but secretly devised a plan whereby he 
hoped to get even with Alf. The next morning as 
Enoch passed the yard on his way to school, he 
stopped and picked up Alf’s knife from the grind- 
stone where it lay, and ran away with it. Soon Alf 
missed the knife and decided who had taken it. He 
told some of the boys to tell Enoch that the knife 
belonged to Mr. Sykes, the owner of the yard. Just 
as soon as Enoch was told this he sent the knife back 
by a boy who was going to the spring after a bucket 
of water. 

That afternoon as Enoch passed the yard on his 
way home he stopped at the office, which Alf used as 
a bedroom. The men were all out at work. Enoch 
very leisurely looked about the room for something 
to take possession of till Alf should return his mar- 
ble. Presently he noticed Alf’s sweetheart’s picture 
on a little shelf. He knew that it didn’t belong to 
Mr. Sykes. He put it in his book and went away 
whistling. 

That night when Alf went to his room he missed 
the picture immediately, but knew well enough what 
had become of it. Next morning he told some of 
the town boys that as soon as that “mossback” 
preacher’s son came in he intended thrashing him. 


AN UGLY FIGHT. 


129 


Brother Gladys happened to bring the children to 
school in the buggy that morning, and of course Alf 
didn’t trouble him. At school that day the boys 
told Enoch that grown man, Alf Thompson, was 
going to use him up. Enoch was terribly frightened, 
and well he might have been, for he, a frail lad of 
thirteen, could not by himself be a match for a six- 
footer over twenty-one years of age. 

After school Enoch had to go by the post office for 
the mail, and as he returned he went quite a distance 
around the yard to avoid Alf. But Alf was watching 
for him, and as Enoch started through a little clump 
of bushes Alf leaped tow^ard him, but Enoch jumped 
out of his reach and started off in the lead at a swift 
run; but Alf gained on him, and just as Enoch 
caught up with his sisters Alf overtook him, and 
seized hold of his coat collar with such force that 
the child fell to the ground. Then, tightening his 
grasp on the boy’s collar, he began jerking him 
up and down, while he was saying to him: “O yes, 
you young ape, you devilish preacher’s son. I’ll teach 
you how to steal! Hand out that picture, or I’ll 
maul the life out of you, you little rogue! ” 

Enoch, through sobs and tears, managed to say: 
“ I — will — give — you — your — picture — if — you — will 
— give — me — my — marble.” 

“No, you little scamp,” retorted Alf, his anger at 
the highest pitch. “You’ve got to give up that pic- 
ture, marble or no marble, or I’ll stick that sandy 
head of yours in that mudhole.” Then without giv- 
ing Enoch time to do or say anything, he began 
dragging him toward an ugly hole of mud and water. 

Enoch began crying at the top of his voice. Poor 

9 


130 


THE preacher’s SON. 


little Statia, wlio could not bear tlie least excite- 
ment, dropped to tlie ground almost senseless. 
Fannie cried for help, and Fair, only seven years old, 
picked up a stick and ran along beating Alf on the 
back with all her might. As Alf held both of his 
hands, Enoch could only kick and yell. When they 
reached the edge of the pond, Alf turned loose of 
Enoch’s hands and caught him around the waist and 
by the back of the neck, and, turning his head down- 
ward, was in the very act of sousing his head under, 
when Enoch, trying to keep out, seized Alf’s watch 
chain with such force that the links flew all over 
the little pond. This served to increase Alf’s al- 
ready uncontrollable temper, and in his rage he gave 
Enoch a slap that sent the trembling child flat on 
the ground. Then taking him up again, he was 
pushing his head to the water, but just as Enoch’s 
face was within a foot of the mud he seized two 
hands full and threw it in Alf’s face. A large por- 
tion of it landed in his eyes and completely blinded 
him, so that he had to release his hold on Enoch and 
sit down with a groan. 

While this last struggle was going on, little Fair had 
put her hand in Alf’s pocket and got the marble out. 

AVhen Enoch saw his marble, and how Alf was 
suffering, he took the picture from his pocket and 
timidly approaching Alf, he said: “Mr. Thompson, 
hero is your picture; I didn’t mean to make you suf- 
fer so.” 

But Alf was too mad to listen to gentle words. 
He j)ut up his hand as though he meant to receive 
the picture, but instead of taking it he pulled Enoch 
across his lap and began scratching him in the face 


AN UGLY FIGHT. 


131 


most savagely. After a great effort Enoch got away 
from him. Alf was so blinded that he could not run 
after him. Poor Enoch looked more like he needed 
a physician to follow him. His face w^as bleeding all 
over, and the mingling tears and blood were falling in 
great drops on the bosom of his shirt. The little 
girls thought that their brother was nearly killed. 
All four of the children cried all the way home. 
Little Statia was so weak that Pannie had to support 
her most of the way. When they reached home it 
was nearly dark. 


CHAPTEE XXIV. 

COMMENTS ON THE FIGHT. 

B EOTHEE and Sister Gladys had grown uneasy 
on account of the continued absence of the 
children, and both were standing at the front gate 
when they arrived at home. With the wildest anx- 
iety and excitement they inquired into the trouble 
and what the cause had been. 

Enoch was suffering so much that he could not 
talk, and Statia was too weak. Fannie, prompted by 
little Fair, related what they had seen and heard. 

Brother Gladys was so enraged that he would have 
ridden over to town that night and given Tompson a 
sound beating, but Sister Gladys persuaded him out 
of the notion by telling him it would only make bad 
matters worse, and that the next morning would be a 
better time for it. 

After the children left Alf he washed the mud out 
of his eyes and went back to the village. He had 
found the picture on the ground by his side at the 
pond, and felt that he had gained a great victory on 
the one hand, but he resolved that Enoch’s father 
should pay for the chain, even if it required the law. 
That night Alf called on Mr. Miles, the village law- 
yer, to ascertain what steps should be taken in order 
to secure an indemnity for his loss. 

Mr. Miles listened attentively; and when Alf had 
finished his story, he said: “Mr. Thompson, did you 
strike the child or hurt him in any way? ” 

( 132 ) 


COMMENTS ON THE FIGHT. 


133 


Al£ at once acknowledged that he had slapped 
Enoch and scratched his face, but made excuse for 
it by telling how Enoch had filled his face with mud. 

Mr. Miles said: ‘‘Well, Mr. Thompson, the child 
had as much right to take your knife or picture as 
you had to take the marble, and instead of recover- 
ing damages for your chain, I fear it will cost you a 
considerable sum to get out of it. You are over 
twenty-one, and have provoked a fuss with a minor, 
then hurt him. And besides, I should not be sur- 
prised if Mr. Gladys comes over to-night, or in the 
morning, and settles with you; and you know when 
you get one of these Methodist preachers stirred up 
he generally knows just how to proceed. 

After Mr. Miles’s eye-opening remarks, Alf re- 
mained only a few minutes. When he reached his 
room, he packed his effects in a valise, wrote a note 
and laid it on the table, then closed the door behind 
him and wended his way to parts unknown. The 
note he left was as follows: ^ 

Dear Mr. Sykes: I have been involved in a little difficulty 
which makes it necessary for me to leave you. You have been 
kind to me, and I thank you for it. Pay the balance of my 
■wages to my uncle, and tell him to use it in putting a fence 
around mother’s grave. 

Tell the young lady whose picture you saw on the table in 
the office that I will write to her soon. 

I don’t know where I will go. You know my father ran 
away, for killing a man, just the year after he and mother mar- 
ried, and two months before I was born. I may meet up with 
him somewhere — I think I would know him by his picture — 
and no doubt he would recognize his old self in my temper. 

You will hear all about my trouble soon. It was the preach- 
er’s son that caused it. If I hurt him very much, I didn’t mean 
to do it. I did it in a passion, but he had no business to pro- 


134 


THE PEEACHER’S SON. 


voke me. I have come to believe what I have so often heard 
you say: “A preacher’s son is the meanest boy in the world.” 
If there is any truth in that saying, I feel to-night like when I 
find my father he will be a preacher too. 

But 1 must be off. If old man Gladys comes snorting around 
you, tell him to quit preaching honesty till he gets the rogue 
out of his family. 

Please don’t neglect mother’s grave. That one little spot of 
earth has more influence over me than everything else in the 
world. I hope some day to be a good man, and able to curb 
my temper; then I will come back home and kneel by that 
little neglected mound, and thank God for the influence her 
memory had over me. 

Good-bye, perhaps forever. 

Yours truly, Alfred Thompson. 

The next morning as Brother Gladys was riding 
over to the village he was praying instead of cutting 
sticks. The evening before he wanted to fight it out, 
but when the morning came, although Enoch’s face 
was in a bad plight and little Statia was so ill as to 
need the attention of the physician, he felt that the 
Lord would help him to settle the matter. Hence 
he prayed for grace sufficient unto the trial. When 
Brother Gladys rode up to the door of the tanyard 
office, he heard Mr. Sykes out at the bark mill back 
of the office talking to some of the hands and curs- 
ing about the preacher’s son causing the best boy 
that ever lived to run away from his home and a good 
job. Brother Gladys could tell from Sykes’s tone 
that he was drinking, so he turned and rode away 
unobserved. He was thankful to hear that Alf had 
gone, for he felt sure that would end it and save 
trouble. He rode up town and learned, for a fact, 
that Alf had left. He went home immediately and 
related the news to his family. Sister Gladys was 


COMMENTS ON THE FIGHT. 


135 


thankful that she had not let her husband go to town 
the evening before; but like a good, modest woman 
that she was, she never said a word about what good 
she had accomplished or what trouble she had pre- 
vented. 

For some time after, this trouble was the talk of 
the neighborhood. Some people sympathized with 
Enoch and hoped that his face would not be scarred; 
others said that it was a pity and a shame that the 
preacher’s son should be the cause of a poor orphan 
boy leaving his home and wandering out into the 
wicked world. Mrs. Sykes even went so far as to 
declare: “All my life — and I have lived thirty-eight 
years — I have never known of any meanness or trouble 
but that a preacher’s son was at the bottom of it all. 
They are the meanest boys in the world. But that is 
the way it goes. The carpenter’s children live out of 
doors, the shoemaker’s children go barefooted, and the 
preacher’s children, especially the boys, are as mean 
as old Nick wants them to be.” 


CHAPTEE XXV. 

ENOCH FOECED TO ACT AS STEWAKD. 

NE night after Sister Gladys had put all the 



w children to bed, she went into the little front 
room where her husband was studying, and taking a 
seat began to gaze at the fire and rub her hands to- 
gether hurriedly, as was her custom when she was in 
trouble, or when she had to interrupt Brother Gladys. 
Presently he said: “Louise, you look troubled about 
something. What has happened, dear? ” 

She continued to gaze into the fire for fully a min- 
ute before she made reply; then, throwing her head 
back and smiling as though she had just recalled 
some old pleasantry, she replied; “ O, it is not much 
of anything; I gUess I might not have troubled you. 
I know the Lord will provide, bat I believe we are to 
do our part.” 

“ Why, Louise, I thought something was the mat- 
ter; but I dare say the trouble is that something is 
lacking in the pantry. Am I right?” 

“ That is it, Mr. Gladys. The meat, meal, and flour 
are out; I have borrowed flour for breakfast.” 

“O, well, don’t fret about that, Louise; Brother 
Davis will be here in the morning with a load of pro- 
visions; and if he don’t come, I will go after some- 
thing myself.” 

The next morning they waited till ten o’clock, but 
Brother Davis did not arrive. 

Enoch was dispatched to hitch up the horse; but 


(13G) 


ENOCH FORCED TO ACT AS STEWARD. 137 

just as Brother Gladys was ready to start, a poor, 
ragged boy walked up and asked him if he was the 
preacher. He answered in the affirmative, and the 
boy said: “Well, gran’pap air mighty po’ly, an’ he 
saunt we atter you to come and say prayers with him.” 

Brother Gladys had never seen the boy before, so 
he asked: “ Who is your grandfather?” 

The boy replied: “ Why, he air ole Uncle Jemes 
Simmern. He axed me to say to you how as he don’t 
b’long to your flock o’ Methodys, but he’s mighty 
’fraid he’s gona die right off, ’fore his elder could 
be saunt for, an’ he lowed that, bein’ as death’s 
a-comin’, you’d do as well as Elder Huckleberry.” 

Brother Gladys replied: “ O, yes, he’s that old 
man who lives out on the mountain near Hopkins’s 
Cross Boads.” 

The boy gave an assenting nod, and Brother Gladys 
inquired: “How far is it? ” 

“ Well, it’s nigh onto five mile, the near way. I’m 
a-walkin’; Uncle Hamp is in the grass, an’ couldn’t 
stop the plow.” 

Brother Gladys called his wdfe and asked her what 
she thought he had better do. After consultation it 
was agreed that he should w’alk with the boy to his 
home, and that Enoch should go in the opposite di- 
rection after quarterage. 

The little girls were very much distressed for fear 
that “ buddie ” would not get the provisions, and that 
maybe they would have to starve. 

Enoch was directed to go first to Brother Davis’s, 
the steward at Sardinia Church, and bring home 
wd]at he had collected. He drove away from home 
heavy-hearted, for he felt sure that somebody would 


138 


THE PEEACHEIl’s SON. 


call him a beggar. He knew that his father worked 
hard enough to earn twice as much as he received, 
but he felt that it was not his place to go after it. It 
was a long, warm drive, and high noon by the time 
he reached Mr. Davis’s. Mrs. Davis and the girls 
were washing, but they soon fixed Enoch a “snack o’ 
cold victuals.” Enoch fed his horse and ate his din- 
ner. After dinner he sat or fidgeted for about half 
an hour before he could make up his mind to tell his 
business. Finally he asked: “ Where is Brother 
Davis? Papa sent me after some things.” 

Mrs. Davis explained that he and a crowd of men 
and boys had gone over to Willoughby’s Bend to 
hunt for some “bee trees.” She also stated that 
they would not return till dark or after. Then she 
said: “I sposen you’ve come after some quarterage, 
hain’t ye? ” 

Enoch told her that he had, and she continued: “ I 
hearn Mr. Davis say y is teddy that he had promised 
your pa that he would fetch him some things the 
first of this week, but that he’d had such fine luck 
a-bee huntin’ he would have to take the whole week 
fur it; and besides he said he saw Monk Spriggins 
give your pa two dollars fur a-marryin’ uv him, and 
he ’lowed as how that’d keep you all a-kickin’ till one 
day nex’ week.” 

Enoch wanted to tell her that his father had spent 
the two dollars for some dresses for the little girls, 
but his pride kept back the words. 

Mrs. Davis said: “Fetch me here that bucket you 
have out there in your buggy, an’ I’ll put somethin’ 
nice in it for you.” 

Enoch went and got the bucket, which he had 


ENOCH FORCED TO ACT AS STEWARD. 139 

brought for lard, and handed it to Mrs. Davis. She 
carried it to the smokehouse, and soon returned and 
handed it to Enoch, saying: “ Now, don’t you look 
at it till you git at home.” 

Enoch replied, Well’m.” He took his hat to go, 
but he had nothing but the bucket and its secret con- 
tents to carry home, and he knew very well that, no 
matter what the bucket had in it, it could not last 
long, or make up for meat and bread. He picked up 
the bucket, and, shifting his weight from one foot to 
the other, asked: ‘‘And what must I tell papa? ” 

The old lady replied: “Why, tell him that Mr. 
Davis wasn’t to home, an’ that he’ll be down one day 
nex’ week.” 

A Miss Davis, seeing the tears steal into Enoch’s 
eyes, said: “Maw, I heard Squire Dogby tell paw 
a-Sunday that he had a bushel of wheat for Brother 
Gladys, and Dave Naman said that he had some corn 
for him, and Uncle Dolly Grumpier said that he had 
a middlin’ of meat for him.” 

Mrs. Davis said: “Well, Lindy, I guess they won’t 
spile afore nex* week, an’ then yer pap’ll take ’em 
down.” 

While Miss Lindy was talking Enoch’s heart grew 
light, but the words of the old lady put cold water on 
his feelings. However, he put on a brave face, and 
said: “Well, I’d hate to go home with an empty 
buggy; so if you will tell me where those people live, 
I will go by on my way home and get some of the 
things.” 

The old lady said: “ Well, Buddie, if you think you 
can squeeze blood outen a turnip, I’ll tell you whar 
to go. You remember that signboard at the forks 


140 


THE rREACHEll’S SON. 


of the road just this side of Jones’s Creek ford. 
Well, there you take the left hand fork, an’ the first 
white house you come to is Squire Dogby’s. If he 
recognizes yer paw’s horse an’ buggy, he may give 
you a little wheat; but if he don’t recognize them, 
there ain’t no tellin’ what he’ll do. He’s the tightest- 
fisted man that ever lived in a house that had white 
paint smeared on it. He’s been a-promisin’ Lindy’s 
pap a bushel o’ wheat for your pap ever since the last 
quarterly meetin’. Davis h ain’t been atter it yit, fur 
he says there ain’t no use a-goin’; he wouldn’t git it.” 

Enoch bade them a good-bye and started toward 
home, by the way of Squire Dogby’s. As he drove 
along he wondered what was in the bucket and what 
the Squire would say to him. Soon he came in front 
of an elegant mansion sitting back from the road on 
a little rise. He drove up to the gate, but before he 
had time to call, the barking of the yard dog brought 
a tall, gray-bearded man out of the house. The old 
man put his chin against his neck, aud peering over 
his glasses, gave Enoch such a look that the boy 
imagined his bones crumbling. In the twinkling of 
an eye his thoughts changed, for the old man said: 
‘‘ Why, good morning, my little man. You are Broth- 
er Gladys’s boy, are you not? ” 

Enoch, struck by the kind words, replied in a very 
mellow tone, Yes, sir.” He began wondering how 
to make known his errand, when the Squire said: 
“ I’m very glad you came by. I have some wheat for 
your father. I meant to send it the first of the week, 
but Brother Davis did not come for it.” 

Enoch replied at once: “I have a sack here that 
you can put it in.” 


ENOCH FORCED TO ACT AS STEWARD. 141 

The Squire had Enoch to drive to the lot. There 
he took the boy’s sack into the barn and filled it with 
oats. Enoch looked on and wondered if the man had 
mistaken oats for wheat. When the sack was ready, 
the Squire told Enoch to take it to the buggy. He 
obeyed, but he could hardly keep back the tears. He 
thought to himself: “ Papa and I can make out, but it 
will be too bad for mamma and little sisters to have 
to do without biscuits.” 

The Squire came out of the barn and went to a 
granary in another part of the lot. When he told 
Enoch to drive over there, the boy’s heart at once 
grew lighter. Imagine the pleasant surprise when 
the man put two brand new sacks, each containing two 
bushels of wheat, in the buggy, saying as he did so: 
“ Tell your father these sacks are a present, and so 
are the oats; only the wheat is to go on my quarter- 
age. And tell him that wheat is now selling for 
$1.75 a bushel; but as this should have been paid the 
second quarter, when the price was $1.25, I will only 
charge him $1.25 a bushel.” 

Enoch thanked him as heartily as he could; and aft- 
er getting directions to Dave Naman’s, drove away 
from the Squire’s, wondering how in the world Mrs. 
Davis could have said such hard things about such 
a good man. 

The drive to Naman’s led him back by the Cross 
Roads, and halfway home on the same road he had 
traveled in the morning. As he was driving along he 
was hailed at one place by an old crippled man who 
had a dozen bundles of fodder tied and ready for him; 
and at another place by a little girl who had a pet 
pig in a box for “ Brother Gladys’s little blackhead- 


142 


THE preacher’s SON. 


ed girl.” Both the old man and the little girl told 
him they had seen him pass that morning and had 
been on the lookout for him all day. 

When he reached Dave Naman’s, Mrs. Naman 
came out and said: “Dave has gone over to Mr. 
Davis’s a-bee huntin’, but I’ll get the corn for you; he 
told me he shelled it last Saturday when it was a-rain- 
in’.” Enoch followed her to the barn. There in a cor- 
ner sat a sack with about half a bushel of corn in it and 
by the sack was a half-bushel measure not quite full 
of corn, for there on top laid a hame with which Mr. 
Naman had struck off the corn, with the bowed side of 
the hame turned down. Mrs. Naman blushed and 
said something about Dave not getting through with 
the shelling. Then they put the corn in a sack 
which Enoch had brought along for that purpose. 
And besides Mrs. Naman had Enoch to put two or 
three dozen good ears in his buggy to shell, on his 
way, to make up a good bushel. 

Enoch drove on to Uncle Dolly Crumpler’s, where 
he added a nice middling and a ham to his already 
loaded buggy. 

He stopped at the mill and had one sack of the 
wheat and the one of corn ground. He reached 
home just after sundown. His father had returned 
from his trip. Brother and Sister Gladys were sit- 
ting on the front steps and the little girls were play- 
ing in the front yard. They all ran out to the gate 
to meet him, and to see what he had piled on the 
buggy. Little Fair and her sisters were jubilant 
over the pet pig, and the older members of the fam- 
ily were proud of the other things as well. 

When they had taken nearly all the things out. 


ENOCH FORCED TO ACT AS STEWARD. 


143 


Enoch picked up the bucket, which he had not 
thought of since he left Squire Dogby’s. He told 
his mother what Mrs. Davis had said about it. Sister 
Gladys opened the bucket and found about a pint of 
wild honey and comb in the bottom of it. 

That night after Enoch had retired he heard his 
father say to his mother: “Louise, Enoch beats all 
the stewards, don’t he? ” 

Sister Gladys replied: “ Yes, when my prayers are 
following him.” 

Enoch went to sleep as happy as a preacher’s son 
or anybody else’s son ever was or ever will be. 


CHAPTEE XXVI. 

“heee’s one the old man gave me.” 

S INCE the events recorded in, the last chapter a 
great many things have happened. Enoch has 
picked cotton and pulled fodder and earned enough 
money to buy his first suit of “ ready-made ” clothes. 
He would have had enough to have bought him a hat 
and a pair of shoes too, but one of the men for whom 
he picked cotton for two weeks invited and urged liim 
to take dinner with him every day; and when they 
came to settle, the man charged him twenty-five cents 
for each dinner; and as the boy only earned forty 
cents a day, he had very little left to show for that 
two weeks’ labor. 

Six months have passed since Brother Gladys 
moved to his new home, and Enoch has another sister. 
Porter they named her, and she and Enoch, the old- 
est and youngest, were more alike than any of the 
others. Porter was the baby child of the family, and 
Enoch was indeed the preacher’s son. 

At his new home Enoch soon found friends, and 
fell into the bad habit of occasionally staying down 
town after school till sundown. One evening when 
he had thus dissipated till nearly dark he saw his fa- 
ther pass going toward home on horseback. He 
knew his father would get there first and that he 
would be in for it. He quickly decided to try his 
old plan: he prevailed on one of his companions to 
go and spend the night with him. But his old trick 
( 144 ) 


“here’s one the old man gave me.” 145 


was a failure that time, for his father left his com- 
pany to be entertained by Sister Gladys while he 
took the young gentleman out behind the chicken 
house and entertained him. That was the last whip- 
ping Enoch received; but it was a needed one, and was 
given in the right spirit, and did lasting good. 

Among Enoch’s new acquaintances was a doctor 
who seemed to take quite a fancy to the boy. At 
one time he had Enoch to cut a cord of stove wood 
for him, and in payment gave him a lYaterbury 
watch and a silver-washed chain. Enoch was proud 
of them, and they made him feel larger than lie really 
was. 

On more than one occasion he and some of his 
companions went off to the creek fishing and carried 
a package of cigarettes with them. These they 
would smoke, their thumbs in their vest holes, and 
Enoch consulting his watch about every ten minutes, 
while they constructed plans for their future career. 

By chopping wood and running errands Enoch 
soon had several dollars. His father thought it 
would encourage him to take care of his money if he 
had a purse, so he gave him a pocketbook which he 
had made out of the red top of a boot while he was 
in the war. Enoch was proud of the pocketbook, 
even though it was old and worn. He put his money 
in the book and the book in his hip pocket, and 
walked about feeling very large. 

One evening as he was going home from school 
he stopped in at his favorite drug store to look at the 
new goods. The doctor was putting some cologne in 
the show case. He pointed to one very pretty bottle, 
the price of which was a dollar, and told Enoch he 
10 


146 


THE preacher’s SON. 


expected to save it for him, and that if he would come 
after it on Christmas Eve he should have it to put on 
the Christmas tree for his sweetheart. Enoch thanked 
him and assured him that he would call for it at the 
appointed time. Then he picked up the doctor’s 
bucket and ran for some water. When he returned 
with the water, the doctor was unpacking the pretti- 
est lot of purses Enoch had ever seen. The doctor 
watched Enoch’s eye to see which one he admired 
most. When he was satisfied which one it was, he 
picked it up and asked: “Enoch, have you a pocket- 
book?” 

Enoch’s eyes fairly danced as he put his hand in 
his pocket and brought out his old purse, replying as 
he did so: “Here’s one, or a sort of a one, the old 
man gave me.” 

The doctor gave Enoch a piercing look and asked: 
“ What ‘ old man ? ’ ” 

Enoch answered: “I mean papa.” Then he hung 
his head for shame, for he never before in all his life 
had called his father the “old man.” 

The doctor looked at Enoch a minute and then at 
the book, which he finally put back in its place in the 
show case, saying as he did so : “I am surprised. I 
make it a rule never to give a boy anything if he 
calls his father the * old man,’ but I would not have 
thought it of you, Enoch.” 

Enoch told him he had never done so before, and 
assured him he would never do so again. But the 
doctor went on with his work, saying as he did so: 
“A boy that will call his father the ‘ old man ’ will 
break a promise.” 

Enoch was very much humiliated, and soon went 


“here’s one the old man gave me.” 147 

home feeling blue. He said nothing about what had 
happened; but he was troubled, and so earnest was 
his sorrow that he often cried about it. 

For a long while Enoch was ashamed to meet the 
doctor; but when December came, he thought of the 
promised bottle of cologne and began to devise means 
by which to remind the doctor of his promise. He 
first presented him with a peck of walnuts, saying: 
“Doctor, here are some walnuts I have hulled for 
you. I did intend selling them, but papa has prom- 
ised to give me fifty cents for spending money 
Christmas, and I shall not need to sell them.” He put 
special stress on the word “papa; ” but the busy doc- 
tor failed to notice it, and accepted the gift with a 
very dry “ Thank you,” said as though it was not 
meant. Enoch was not to be daunted by small mat- 
ters. He tried another experiment: he carried the 
doctor a lot of nice pop corn, for which he received 
the same dry “ Thank you.” 

At last the day before Christmas came. Early in 
the morning Enoch passed the drug store, and to his 
great delight noticed the pretty cologne bottle still in 
the case. As the day grew he became restless.- He 
had studied for some three months before he could 
decide which girl to give the cologne to, and it was 
just the Sunday before that he had decided. He had 
even told Luella Moss that he was going to put it on 
the tree for her, and she smiled coquettishly and 
thanked him. 

About three o’clock in the afternoon Enoch went 
to the drug store and proposed to wrap bundles or 
do whatever he could by way of help; but the doctor 
told him that he had already engaged other boys, and 


148 


THE preacher’s SON. 


would not need him. Enoch went away, but soon 
came back. The long-watched bottle of cologne was 
gone. Enoch tried to imagine that the doctor had 
put it away for him. After hanging around till 
sundown Enoch approached the doctor and said: 
“ Doctor, I have done all the work that my papa told 
me to do to-day, and now I have come for that bottle 
of cologne you promised me.” 

The doctor looked at Enoch as one stranger would 
look at another, and said: “Look here, young man, 
don’t try to play any trick on me. I never promised 
you any cologne.” 

Without another word Enoch stepped out of the 
door and went home. On arriving at home he went 
immediately to the barn and lay down on a pile of 
cotton seed and cried bitterly. He knew that he had 
never called his father the “ old man ” but once, and 
that he would never do so again. He also knew that 
he had done all in his power to make the doctor for- 
give and forget his rudeness. And now, just to think, 
the doctor himself had broken his promise and told a 
falsehood. O how bitterly the child wept over his 
sin and the doctor’s! Which was the greater? Chil- 
dren never forget promises nor value the integrity of 
those who break them. 

Strangely enough, Luella Moss got the bottle of 
cologne. One of Enoch’s playmates, who was too 
timid to tell that he did it, bought it and placed it on 
the tree for her. It was a number of years before 
Luella ever learned that Enoch was not the donor, 
but it was not Enoch’s fault, for he said or heard 
nothing more of the cologne. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

CALLED ON TO PRAY IN PUBLIC. 

WO months after Enoch celebrated his seven- 



-L teenth birthday his father was assigned to a 
station. A preacher’s son, seventeen years old, knows 
what it is for his father to be put on a station for the 
first time. 

Enoch, being in the transitory period of youth, 
found very little difficulty in admiring the young la- 
dies of his father’s new congregation. There was 
one especially on whom he felt that he could lavish 
his affection with all ease. It is true he promised 
Luella before he moved that he would never forget 
her, and that he would love her always. He even 
wrote her one or two letters, but for some reason 
they were never answered, and he decided to love 
somebody else. That somebody was the erect figure 
and pretty face of the widow Demon’s daughter. 

When Enoch started to school, the teacher engaged 
him to act as janitor, and in payment for his services 
allowed him and one of his sisters to take music les- 
sons. 

The teacher never allowed the boys and girls to 
talk to each other or associate with each other at 
noon or at recess, but Enoch’s music lesson came im- 
mediately after Miss Regie Demon’s. As he went to 
the music room, and she came from it, they met in 
the hall, and before Enoch had been going to school 
a week they were passing notes. Soon the notes 
grew into great four-page epistles of nonsense. 


( 149 ) 


150 


THE preacher’s SON. 


Miss Eegie was two or three years older than Enoch, 
and bore the reputation of being a great flirt. She 
even told some of her schoolmates that she was going 
to wind Enoch Gladys around her thumb a few times 
and then let him fall. 

Enoch’s love for her waxed madly warmer. One 
Wednesday night, when he had not known her over a 
month, he was going home with her from prayer 
meeting. They had to pass down a long narrow lane, 
which was shaded on either side by spreading chest- 
nut trees. Just as they reached the darkest part of 
the lane Miss Eegie asked: “ Enoch, do you love me 
better than anybody else in the world?” 

Enoch blushed, even in the dark, and told her he 
loved her next to his kinsfolk. “ Then,” she said, 
“if you will never tell a living soul, I will let you 
kiss me.” 

Enoch had never kissed a sweetheart before in all 
his life, but he seemed by instinct to know just how 
it was done. He gave her a full, round, sugar-coated 
kiss right on her red lips. When they reached the 
gate at Miss Demon’s home they took another kiss, 
and when Enoch told her good-bye they took anoth- 
er. As Enoch went out at the gate Miss Demon 
called him to tell him something she had forgotten, 
and at last kissed him good-bye over the gate. 

Enoch went home feeling like he had done some- 
thing wrong, but he tried to reason with himself that 
Miss Demon loved him better than she did her moth- 
er, and why should it be wrong for them to kiss? 

A few evenings afterward as Enoch was sweeping 
out the schoolhouse he heard a crowd of boys laugh- 
ing and talking just outside the door. They were 


CALLED ON TO PRAY IN PUBLIC. 151 

sitting on the steps. Enoch stopped his broom and 
listened. 

One said: ‘‘ Well, boys, that preacher’s son is dead 
in love, ain’t he ? ” 

Several in a chorus said: “It looks that a-way.” 

Then another said: “ I wonder if Eeg has kissed 
him yet.” 

Enoch shuddered, for he felt sure that some one 
had seen him kiss her. 

A third boy said: “Boys, we all know her; she has 
a good mother and her father was a good man, and 
she is not a very bad girl herself, but I don’t like 
that way she has of kissing so promiscuously.” 

The boy who had spoken first said: “ Boys, we can 
keep it to ourselves. Let’^ every one that has kissed 
her take his books and go home.” 

So saying he picked up his books and started, and 
in less than three seconds every boy in that crowd of 
six was making toward home, whooping and laughing. 
Enoch stood as still as a post, and felt like a fool. 
He could not believe liis ears. He said to himself: 
“ What! my sweet Begie kiss all that crowd of ugly 
boys! it’s impossible. They just said it because they 
thought I’d hear.” 

That night Sister Gladys asked Fannie and Statia 
who a certain young lady was that she had seen at 
the post office just after school hours. She said: 
“ She was a real pretty girl, only she seemed to be 
trying to fiirt with everybody.” 

Enoch went on studying his lesson, but he knew 
from the description his mother had given that the 
girl was Miss Demon. He didn’t like to hear even 
his mother say anything unpleasant about his sweet- 


152 


THE preacher’s SON. 


heart. He tried to console himself with the thought 
that “even mother will love her when she comes to 
know her.” 

As school went on this couple loved on. Three 
months from the time Enoch started to the school, he 
went to prayer meeting with Miss Demon, and sat by 
her in the church. He had often accompanied her 
and Luella and other girls from church, but never 
before had he gone to church wdth a sweetheart. 

It happened that night that Brother Gladys hadn’t 
a single member present that would pray in public. 
He decided that it was a good time for Enoch to 
make a beginning. After singing two songs, reading 
a chapter, and praying himself, he said: “Let us 
pray. Son, please lead the prayer.” 

Enoch, trembling in every nerve, knelt very humbly 
and, burying his face in his hands, began to pray the 
best he could. When about half through with the 
prayer he suddenly found himself without anything to 
say. He stammered, hesitated, stammered again, 
then wound up with the Lord’s Prayer. Miss Demon 
sat rigidly erect during the prayer, and when Enoch 
stammered and hesitated she put her handkerchief 
over her mouth and tittered. Enoch’s keen ear was 
not easily deceived; he heard it, and it stuck in his 
heart like a dagger. He felt miserable. 

Prayer meeting soon closed and the couple started 
home. Enoch was not as talkative as usual, and when 
they reached the shady place in the lane he never 
hesitated. Presently Miss Demon said: “Enoch, 
aren’t you going to kiss me? ” 

Enoch in a low and sad tone replied: “No! no! 
no!” 


CALLED ON TO PRAY IN PUBLIC. 153 

“Why, Enoch, my boy,” she said, “what’s the 
matter?” 

He replied: “ Well, Miss Eegie, I did love you wild- 
ly, madly, but never better than my dear mother who 
taught me to pray, or the God who forgives my sins 
and makes me so happy when I do what is right. 
Hereafter I shall respect you as a lady, but I’ve no 
more love for you ; besides, I have been feeling mean 
about kissing you. If we had been engaged, and had 
expected to marry at once, it might have been a dif- 
ferent thing.” 

By that time they had reached Miss Demon’s gate. 
Enoch said good night, and had turned to go, when 
Miss Demon said: “Wait a minute, Enoch; let me 
tell you. When I first kissed you I was only flirting 
with you, but I have learned to love you better than 
I ever loved anybody. I didn’t mean to laugh when 
you forgot your prayer, but it was just too funny for 
anything.” 

Enoch was a boy of strong determination, and when 
convinced of a thing he stuck to it. He said: “Well, 
if you w^ere flirting when you kissed me that first 
night and told me how well you loved me, you can 
easily forget me now. And another thing: my reli- 
gion is dearer to me than your love. May God bless 
'you, and make us both good people! Good night.” 

I say: Hurrah for the preacher’s son! What do 
you say? Boys, always remember, “The devil gives 
the serpent the voice of a friend, and lays the young 
head on a silken lap before he sends for the Philis- 
tines.” 


CHAPTEE XXVIII. 

SWEETHEARTS AND SWEET MOTHERS. 


See thou love«t what is lovely. — William Penn. 
So loving to my mother, 

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 


Visit her face too roughly. 


— Shakespeare. 



EADEE, if you are a boy, let me ask you: 


JLl) Wiiat do you think about boys and their 
sweethearts anyway? 

Generally a boy blushes and feels shy when an old- 
er person says anything to him about his sweetheart, 
but you needn’t blush now. Pm not going to tease 
you. I am just going to talk to you seriously and 
earnestly. 

Possibly you are Enoch’s age and have a sweet- 
heart yourself. Yes, you have for a long time 
known and felt the joy of having some nice little girl 
for a “ good friend.” But now you begin to have a 
different feeling for the girl, and you needn’t be 
ashamed of it, for it is perfectly natural and right. 
God, who cannot mistake, planted it in your heart. 

Longfellow very aptly remarks: “O, there is noth- 
ing holier in this life of ours than the first con- 
sciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken 
wings, the first rising sound and breath of that wind 
which is so soon to sweep through the soul, to purify 
or to destroy.” 

“ Or to destroy.” See, boys, there are two sides to 
the picture. There are some girls with whom you 


( 154 ) 


SWEETHEAllTS AND SWEET MOTHERS. 


155 


may associate, and tlieir refined influence will make 
noble-minded men of you. There are others wJiose 
thoughtless behavior may injure you forever. 

Now, boys, I do not mean to criticise the girls 
harshly; but you and they both have to pass a crit- 
ical period of life, perchance you are passing it now. 
I do not claim that you are necessarily foolish, but 
most boys and girls of Enoch’s age are. I wouldn’t 
have you mention it, but at that age I myself was not 
only foolish, but very foolish. 

But, boys, I don’t think any less of you or of 
Enoch because you are foolish, nor of myself be- 
cause I was foolish. Possibly your error is the same 
that mine was. We need to ask our parents about 
this new feeling we have for some little girl. This 
something called love we don’t understand. W^e 
need to be taught and restrained. 

Boys, let me inquire: Is your sweetheart a girl 
who is too modest to seek attention in i3ublic places, 
or has she a jostling gait and a loud, boisterous 
laugh which commands attention? Is she a girl who 
talks all the time about boys, and who is not very 
particular whether her beau is a good boy or a bad 
boy, just so it is a boy? or is she a girl who can en- 
joy her own brother’s company as well as if he were 
some other girl’s brother, and who prefers staying at 
home to being escorted by a “ fast young man? ” Is 
she a girl who tries to win you with a pretty face, a 
saucy tongue, and a becoming costume? or does she 
delight in womanly acts such as reveal the true beau- 
ty of her character? If you were several years older, 
I would ask; Does she ever boast of the number of 
offers of marriage she has had? Ah, my boy, I need 


156 


THE PliEACHEE’S SON. 


not tell you which girl you should like or love, but 
in the language of William Penn, I would say: “See 
thou lovest what is lovely.” 

Boys, shun the company of such girls as Eegie 
Demon. Seek the company of girls who do not 
move their chair away from you when they hear 
mother coming. 

I do not object to beauty — I love beauty — but, 
boys, you had better love a good homely girl than a 
pretty bad or a bad pretty girl. Ever bear in mind 
that “ handsome is that handsome does.” 

Supposing that you have the love or friendship of 
some noble girl, I would say: Be proud of it, for it 
speaks well for you. Set great store by it, for, in the 
language of Miss Eyder: “You need the keener per- 
ception of right and wrong, the forbearance, the re- 
finement of feeling, the encouragement, the sympa- 
thy, the patience and endurance, the tact, the gentle- 
ness and grace of pure, true-hearted girls.” 

Lucy A. Scott says: “I always trust the boy that 
has girl friends more than the one who snubs his 
sister or some other boy’s sister, and gives her no 
share of his pleasure.” 

Boys may have many sweethearts or girl friends. 
Especially is this true of preacher’s sons, and other 
boys who move about a great deal. 

Some of your girl friends may be young, inexperi- 
enced, and even foolish; but, boys, I beg you, I pray 
you, be too manly to take advantage of their folly. 
Make it a rule to treat every girl as you would have 
some other boy treat your sister or the girl who is 
some day to be your own — your wife. 

Boys, be honorable. Do not speak evil of any girl, 


SWEETHEAKTS AND SWEET MOTHERS. 157 

and positively refuse to listen to anything that has a 
tendency to injure a girl’s name. Hemember that 
there are boys, considered good boys, who have done 
things that would have sent a girl’s good name forev- 
er from the shining page of virtue*. 

“Disrespect toward women is the trade-mark of 
innate depravity;” so, boys, if you would do your 
duty as boys, “ accustom yourselves to protect every 
girl’s good name.” 

Harry Henderson, in Mrs. Stowe’s “My Wife and 
I,” claims that he, even in his boyhood, always kept 
the image of his future wife before him. He says: 
“My shadow wife grew up by my side, under my 
mother’s creative touch. It was for her I studied, 
for her I shouldered toil. The thought of providing 
for her took the sordid element out of economy, and 
made it unselfish. She was to be to me adviser, 
friend, inspirer, charmer. She was to be my com- 
panion, not alone in one faculty, but through all the 
range of my being: there should be nothing wherein 
she and I could not, by approoiative sympathy, com- 
mune together. As I thought of her she seemed 
higher than I. I must love up, not down, I said. 
She must stand on a height, and I must climb to her; 
she must be a princess, worthy of many toils and la- 
bors. The thought of what she would think closed 
for me many a book that I felt she and I could not 
read together; her fair image barred the way to 
many a door and avenue which if a young man en- 
ters he must leave his good angel behind; for her 
sake I abjured intimacies that I felt she could not 
approve; and it was my ambition to keep the inner 
temple of my heart and thoughts so pure that it 


158 


THE preacher’s SON. 


might be a worthy resting place for her at last.” 
Suppose, boys, you try Harry Henderson’s plan. 

But, boys, no matter how sweet your sweethearts 
are, there are other hearts that are sweeter. Yes, I 
mean your mother, of course. Sweet mother, if on 
earth; sweet angel mother, if in heaven. She is the 
one who has borne all the pain and a large share of 
the anxiety and sacrifice for you; she is the one 
whose love will never wane. A mother loves her boy 
from the time he begins to live till he lays down his 
life, whether the end of his journey be the gate of 
glory or the mouth of hell. 

“ There is in all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother’s heart.” 

You have your mother’s love. Do you bear any of 
her cares? do you heed her advice? do you listen 
to her warnings? or do you think as Enoch did, 
“Mother will love my Eegie when she comes to 
know her? ” 

I would tremble if I were to see a boy who does 
not love his mother or heed her advice escorting one 
of my sisters or one of my good friends, or any other 
good person. 

“The best and broadest and grandest foundation 
for true chivalry is respect and filial love for your 
mother.” I was made to feel very sad once, when I 
saw a young man hand his widowed mother a lantern 
as they came out of the church, and say: “I guess 
you will not be afraid to go by yourself, as you have 
a light; I’m going to take Miss Jamie home.” The 
mother’s lip trembled as she took the lantern, but 
she never said a word. I could see from those dear 


SWEETHEARTS AND SWEET MOTHERS. 159 

old eyes that she felt slighted. Yes, boys, mother 
can feel, even if she is old and faded and gray. I 
was a small boy then, but I remember hearing some 
one say: “If Miss Jamie was a good girl, she would 
not go with that man after seeing him slight his 
mother.” 

Boys, let us remember Longfellow’s sweet words: 
“ Even He that died for us upon the cross, in the last 
hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mind- 
ful of his mother, as if to teach us that this holy 
love should be our last worldly thought— the last 
point of earth from which the soul should take its 
flight to heaven.” 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

COALS OF FIEE IN HIS MOUTH. 

PTEE that little love affair came to an end, 



ATX. Enoch began to know his lessons better, and 
by the close of school he was one of the first in 
honor and deportment. 

The day after school closed one of the merchants 
in the town told Brother Gladys that he would like 
to employ Enoch to clerk for him during the sum- 
mer, and possibly all through the winter. Brother 
and Sister Gladys talked the matter over, and de- 
cided that as the merchant was a Christian gentle- 
man they would let their son work for him. The 
merchant agreed to pay Enoch twelve dollars the 
first month, fifteen the second, and eighteen the 
third; after that time twenty-five dollars a month if 
he needed him. 

Enoch went to his new post of duty greatly 
pleased, for he had always had a desire to stand be- 
hind a counter and serve customers. The first morn- 
ing, while he was busying himself arranging the scat- 
tered goods and brushing the shelves, the merchant 
said: “Enoch, we have any amount of canned goods 
and fruits and candies. I make it a rule never to 
charge my clerks for anything they want to eat the 
first week.” 

Enoch thanked him, and then thought to him- 
self: “Now won’t I have a big time?” About ten 
o’clock he got hungry, and feeling free to eat what 


(IGO) 


COALS OF FIRE IN HIS MOUTH. 161 

he pleased, he opened a can of salmon, a can of 
oysters, and a box of sardines. Of course he didn’t 
eat all of that, but he took a bite out of first one and 
then the other until about half of each was gone. 
Then he fancied that he would like to try potted ham. 
He took a box and opened it; it was small and he 
liked it, so he emptied it. When he went to dinner 
he was not a bit hungry. His mother insisted that 
he eat something, and said that if clerking took his 
appetite that way he would not be able to stay in the 
store very long. He did not feel like eating any- 
thing that afternoon, and next morning when he 
awoke he felt sick enough to die. It was two days 
before he was able to go to the store again. And 
never for years did he like to hear of oysters, sal- 
mon, sardines, and potted ham, all at one time. 

It seems that the merchant was an old hand at in- 
itiating clerks, but his next step was a very great 
mistake. He said: “Well, Enoch, you seem not to 
want anything to eat; you may help yourself to to- 
bacco and cigars, free of charge, for one week.” 

Enoch thanked him, and told him that he didn’t care 
for any. But that afternoon one of his friends came 
in and wanted Enoch to smoke a fine cigar with him. 
He at first refused, but finally yielded to the tempta- 
tion. The cigar was mild and didn’t make him very 
sick. He really thought that he looked more manly 
with a cigar in his mouth. Next day he tried an- 
other, next day another, and another. Soon, almost 
before he knew it, he had acquired the habit of using 
tobacco. But he didn’t want his mother to know 
about it. He really felt like he was doing wrong. 

After two or three months Enoch was required to 
11 


162 


THE PllEACHEIi’S SON. 


keep the store open awhile at night. Some nights 
there were a very few customers; but a crowd of men 
and boys always came there and sat till late hours, 
telling yarns. At first he did not like it, for some of 
the boys would swear, and even drink right there in 
the store. After awhile, however, he became more 
accustomed to it, and would sit and smoke his cigar 
and take it turn about telling yarns. On more than 
one occasion he went to the store on Sunday and got 
a pocketful of cigars, which he and some of his 
friends went off into the woods and smoked while 
Sunday school was going on. 

All that time his mother was ignorant of his habits 
and associations. Finally she came to the conclusion 
that something was wrong. As Enoch came around 
the corner on the way home to dinner every day his 
mother noticed that he threw something down. One 
day after he had gone back to the store she went out 
there and looked. Imagine her surprise and grief 
when she beheld over a dozen cigar stubs lying there 
in the ditch where her boy had thrown them! She 
was greatly troubled, and didn’t know what to do. 
She knew that Enoch was off to the store of morn- 
ings as soon as he was up, and not back long enough 
for a word of advice till after eleven o’clock at night. 
She prayed earnestly over the matter, and decided 
on a plan. She wrote her boy a letter as follows: 

Enoch, My Dear Boy: If I only knew that these requests would 
always be observed — now and forever — I would be a happy 
mother to-night. Now, Enoch, remember it is with a prayerful 
heart that I make these requests, and I shall ever do as I have 
been doing: pray for you that yon may overcome all tempta- 
tion, and make a good, noble Christian man. 


COALS OF FIRE IN HIS MOUTH. 


■1G3 


1. Never, never taste anything that will intoxicate. 

2. Please do quit smoking! 

3. Go to Sunday school every Sunday, if possible. 

4. Keep away from the store on Sunday. 

5. Try to get home early at night. 

6. Never swear or use slang. 

7. Never go to bed without saying your prayers. 

8. Read your Bible and try in every way to be a good boy. 
Good boys make good men. 

9. Be good to your sisters. 

10. Always, and under all circumstances, behave nicely in 
the house of God. 

These are the requests of the best friend you have on earth, 
and one that often — yes, daily — prays in secret for you, and who 
will continue to do so as long as life lasts. And when I am 
cold and laid in my coftin, if my children think of me, I want 
them to feel that I am in heaven, and that they are on the road, 
making a safe journey. 

May God bless you ! 

Your loving Mother. 

When she had finished the note she carried it jnto 
Enoch’s room, and after she had made his bed placed 
it on his pillow. 

It was nearly twelve o’clock when Enoch came 
home. He w^as tired and sleepy and was hurrying 
off to bed wdien he found the note. He had already 
put out the light, and was for the first time getting 
into bed without saying his prayers. When he felt 
the note he knew it was something meant for him, 
for his mother would not carelessly have left a paper 
on the bed. He lighted the lamp and read on the 
back of the note, “Mother’s Boy.” At first he 
thought: “Well, I can read it in the morning; it will 
be Sunday, and I will be too tired to leave my room.” 
But he looked over by the foot of his bed, and there 
on a chair were his clothes all prepared for Sunday 


164 


THE PKEACHER’S SON. 


morning. His sliirt had the buttons in it, his sus- 
penders were buttoned to his pants, and his neatly 
darned socks were laid across the tops o£ his Sunday 
shoes. On a table near the mirror lay .his cuffs, col- 
lar, and cravat, and his well-brushed Sunday hat. 
From the breast pocket of his coat dangled a clean, 
bright, linen handkerchief. Enoch looked at them a 
minute and said: ‘^No, dear mother, I will not sleep 
till I read your note.” He opened it and read it, and 
as he read he commented as follows: 

“ 1. Thank the Lord, I have not yet touched whisky. 
How I shudder to think I came near taking a taste 
with Bill last night. 

“2. How can I quit smoking? It took nine cigars 
and four cigarettes for me to-day. It would nearly 
kill me to quit. But mother asks it, and by the help 
of God I’ll quit. If it kills me, I would not suffer 
much more for her sake than she has for mine. 

“ 3. I have missed Sunday school three times. I’ll 
try not to miss again. 

“4. I will not go to the store on Sunday. 

“ 5. I will close up earlier at night. 

“6. I never did swear, but I will quit saying so 
many little bywords. 

“7. My! I started to bed to-night without saying 
my prayer, but I’ll say it yet. 

“ 8. I will read my Bible more, for I do want to be 
a good man. 

“9. Have I been unkind to my sisters? Yes, I re- 
member I spoke crustily to Fannie yesterday. And 
I undertook to quarrel with Statia last week, but she 
kissed me and ran away from me. I will be better to 
my sisters. Yes I will. 


COALS OF FIRE IN HIS MOUTH. 


165 


“ 10. I wonder if mother saw me spit on the church 
floor last Sunday ? I had a little piece of tobacco in 
my mouth. 

“O, I must be a better boy!” he said; and falling 
on his knees by the side of his bed, he begged God 
to forgive all his sins. He prayed earnestly for him- 
self, and then for his associates. When his tired 
head pressed its pillow, his conscience felt better 
than for many days. 

Boys, if there is a ghost in the chamber of your 
conscience, you need to pray. 

‘^A clear, sweet song in the bosom is worth vastly 
more to its possessor than a ton of clear, jingling 
gold in the bank.” 


CHAPTEE XXX. 

PEEACHEES’ SONS AND OTHEE SONS. 


Youth is a breeze, ’mid blossoms straying; 
Where hope clings feeding, like a bee. 


— Coleridge. 


WHILE ago I talked to you about your girl 



friends; now, as our “preacher’s son” was go- 
ing astray, let us talk about the cause. 

Boys will have companions. I dare say, if you are a 
boy, if you were to put this book aside and go out in 
the yard and give two or three shrill whistles, some 
boy would answer you. Or, perchance, your signal 
is a “ AVhoop-hoo-hoo-hee-hoo.” It is possible that to 
every signal you would have several replies. Pos- 
sibly you are nearly grown and do not hollo or whis- 
tle. However, I guess you have some sign: a wink 
or a motion or a word. It may be that you clear up 
your throat twice, then hesitate and clear it up again. 
There are at least three things that boy’s don’t know 
how to get along without. They are: sweethearts, 
boy friends, and signals. It is nothing but right 
that you should have boy friends — companions we 
will call them. The friends of your youth will be 
your truest and tenderest friends through all succeed- 
ing years. But this is also a two-sided thing. There 
are some boys or young men with whom we may as- 
sociate, and get good out of the association. There 
are others who are as great a curse to us publicly as 
they are to themselves privately. Actually some 


( 166 ) 


preachers’ sons and other sons. 167 

boys have serpents’ tongues. Let us shun such boys 
as we would shun snakes, for “wicked companions 
invite us to hell.” 

Boys, let me ask you about your companions. Are 
they members of the busybody class which is al- 
ways piddling at something that never amounts to 
anything? or are they very busy all the time med- 
dling with other people’s affairs, while their own are 
neglected? or are they of the downright lazy class, 
almost like the man mother told me about when I 
was a small boy ? He was too lazy to make a living, 
and his neighbors had started to bury him alive. As 
they passed a good man’s house the man came out 
and proposed to give a bushel of corn toward the 
support of the lazy fellow. He raised himself up on 
one elbow, and inquired: “Is the corn shelled?” 
When he was told that it was not, he replied: “ Well 
drive on, boys.” 

Are your companions always ready for fun and 
frolic, or anything else that will make them laugh 
and enjoy themselves at the expense of others? or 
are they boys who go to town at morning and stay 
all day, doing nothing and earning nothing; just talk- 
ing? or are they boys who want to cheat their play- 
mates out of all their earnings— speculate but never 
work? Are they boys who drink or swear, or brag 
about the number of girls they have kissed, or who 
keep late hours, or call their father the “old man?” 

Boys, the devil is shrewd. When he wants to catch 
a boy, he tries first one bait and then another. Often 
he baits his hook with another boy. And he never 
fails to put beautiful flowers all over his bait and all 
around it. That new boy you met the other day may 


168 


THE PliEACHEFt’s SON. 


be a very bad boy, but lie has money, or a gun, or a nice 
horse and buggy, or a yacht, or a pretty sister. Eest 
assured that the devil will use some means to make 
you believe that the boy is as tender as a girl and as 
pure as an Easter lily. 

Boys, listen to me. Be careful about your associ- 
ates. As a garment resembles the pattern by which 
it was cut, so the boy’s life will resemble that of his 
associates. Did you ever hear of a man being hanged 
who did not date the beginning of his downward ca- 
reer at the time when he got among bad boys? 

Don’t imagine that you are better than everybody 
else. The devil is in us all to some extent. "We must 
struggle and look out; “ must watch and pray.” 

In view of the fact that a boy’s companions de- 
termine his future career, I propose telling you how 
to like the boys, and what boys to like, and liow to 
let them like you. 

It is a good idea if you have a true and tried friend 
to stick to him, and not be in any great rusli to form 
new acquaintances. Be civil, of course, but don’t 
grow intimate with a boy till you know something 
about him. Boys can’t love half-heartedly; it’s 
whole heart or none. Then let us be cautious how 
we form or break acquaintances. 

If you give a baby a bitter weed, it will put it in 
its mouth ; if you give a boy an ugly thought, he will 
put it away in his brain. As such is the case, let us 
seek associates who have pure thoughts, and who ex- 
press those thoughts in pure language. 

Beware of the boy or man who is too much given 
to flattery, for nine times out of ten he has an ax to, 
grind, or he likes you for your money or for your 


preachers’ sons and other sons. 169 

standing. He is a “trencher friend.” If you were 
to lose your money or were to be of no more service 
to him, he would cease to fan you with his devil’s 
wing of flattery. 

Don’t be too friendly with the boy who is your 
friend only when you and he are alone or in the 
country. If he can’t acknowledge your friendship 
in public or in the city, you had better not allow his 
in private. Depend on it, he wants you for a servant, 
and as such he would use you. 

Don’t try to make companions of those who are 
too low or too high for you. If they are too low, 
they will pull you down; if they are too high, you 
may try to keep up, and you will fall anyway, finan- 
cially or otherwise. If you are poor, don’t be ashamed 
of it. Don’t be ashamed to let your companions know 
that you are not able to make such heavy accounts; 
it will make you richer in the long run. 

Never suffer yourself to be the companion of the 
boy who behaves in such a manner as to make you 
think that he considers himself above you. Think 
well of the boy who is willing to meet your friend- 
ship on halfway ground. 

I would not have you misunderstand me: I advise 
you not to have companions too much below you; 
yet, if a dog shows true-hearted care or love or sym- 
pathy for you, cherish it. If you have a companion 
whom you find to be not strictly upright, you had 
better let him alone. His friendship will not help 
you as much as it will injure you. 

If you have a companion who is always question- 
ing you about your secrets, but is never willing to 
tell you about his, you had better let him alone too, 


170 


THE rBEACHEE’s SON. 


for his behavior already indicates that he mistrusts 
you. For true friendship there must be free and 
easy mutual confidence. 

Have nothing to do with infidels, skeptics, or any 
who make light of religion, or who make sport of the 
conscientious scruples of their fellow-men. Beware 
of the so-called “ good, honest, sober, upright ” man 
or boy who says: “There is no God.” The Bible 
says such a one is a fool, and I believe what the Bible 
says about it. There is some mistake about it; a 
man cannot be good unless he acknowledges the 
Giver of all goodness. He cannot be honest and 
deny that his conscience tells him that there is a su- 
preme Being. He cannot be sober with his thoughts 
intoxicated with evil. He cannot be upright when 
he is a downright sinner. 

I have studied this matter for years, and I have de- 
cided that the model companion for a boy is one 
whose character is formed by religion, who has faith 
in God and reverence for him, w^ho loves God and 
his fellow-men, and who is wise enough to believe 
that religion is the foundation of all intelligence. In 
short, if he is a meek and humble follower of the 
lowly Nazarene, he will do for your companion. 
You can trust him ; nothing will be lost. 

Finally, I would advise you to be careful, even if 
you have good companions. Don’t venture to do 
wrong, and don’t talk too much. Bemember what 
Enoch got into by venturing and countenancing evil. 

Please commit these four lines to memory: 

Vice is a monster of so hideous mien, 

That to be hated needs but to he seen. 

"When seen too oft, familiar with its face, 

We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 


CHAPTER XXXL 


TWO ANGELS. 



NE cloudy Friday afternoon when the mail came 


Vy to the village where the Gladys family then re- 
sided, it brought a postal card to Sister Gladys with 
the hurried words: “ Sister, come at once; father is 
very low.” 

Immediate preparations were made for Sister 
Gladys, Porter, and Enoch to go. Brother Gladys 
and the little girls were to remain at home. 

They started Saturday morning at four o’clock. 
Their journey was a long and tiresome one. It was 
forty miles by private conveyance, a hundred by rail- 
road, and five more by private conveyance. 

When they reached the home of Rev. Enoch At- 
kins, they found the good old man yet alive, but 
growing weaker by the hour. He had been ill only a 
few days, but his malady would not yield. 

New light came into the old man’s eyes when he 
beheld his daughter and her two children. After an 
affectionate welcome from each member of the fami- 
ly, the grandfather called Enoch to his bedside and, 
placing his hand on the boy’s head, said: “ My child, 
my grandson, my own and only namesake, God bless 
you! I knew you would come to see grandfather 
once more. Poor old grandfather is so soon to die. 
These twenty years I have been working to get out 
of debt, and now just as it seems that I am prepared 
for quiet living I am to die. But, my boy, I do not 


172 


THE preacher’s SON. 


dread it. The contemplation of death makes me feel 
young again. In the other world I will not be so 
sick and old. I will be fresh and vigorous. When 
I think on the evening of my life, my eyes grow 
bright, and young, happy sunshine comes again, as it 
does at the close of the natural day when storm clouds 
have dispersed.” 

Sister Gladys and her children remained at her 
father’s house only three days, when a letter from 
Brother Gladys brought the word: “Come as soon 
as you can. Statia is not at all well.” 

Sister Gladys knew that her husband’s prudence 
had prevented his telling her that her sickly child 
was dangerously ill. She decided at once that her 
presence was more needed at home than at her fa- 
ther’s. Her mother and her sisters were with her 
father, and only little girls at home to nurse her child. 
When the grandfather found out what they were dis- 
cussing, he called his daughter to him and advised 
her to go to her child at once. She went. It was a 
sad parting. The frail woman was between two fires. 
“ Trouble never comes singly,” I have heard it said. 
It often seems the truth. 

The woman knelt by her father’s side. His lips 
murmured only one word, and that her name: 
“ Louise.” Then he pointed to her children and to 
the skies. She understood him. She poured her 
whole heart out in one kiss on his thin lips and 
turned away. Porter was kissed, and Enoch stood 
crying by the bedside. 

The old man said: “ Come, my boy, take with you 
a parting blessing. Kneel, son, let’s pray. ‘Dear 
Lord, bless this boy, so soon to be a man. Make 


TWO ANGELS. 


173 


him a man indeed. And when his race is run, and 
we two Enochs meet in glory, where all is youth, 
may our twin souls adore thee throughout eternity. 
Amen.’ Enoch, put my hand on your head. There, 
that will do. Son, be a man! Be a man of God! 
Love your father and your mother and all your pre- 
cious sisters. Enoch, will you meet your old grand- 
father in heaven? O, I knew you would say yes. 
Since the day you came from Tennessee, a sick baby, 
I have taken you to my bosom. Enoch, look up. 
There, boy, don’t cry so; look up! God take my boy. 
Now, Enoch, put my arms around your neck; 'that’s 
right. God bless you! Kiss me! Meet me! Good- 
bye!” 

Such a jjarting! They left the dear old man with 
loving hands and God, while they retraced their 
steps. 

At four o’clock the same day they left the Atkins 
home they reached the station forty miles from the 
village where they lived. They started at once. 
Night came on before they were one-fourth of the 
way home. But the driver knew the road and put 
great confidence in his team. It was a cloudy night. 
Occasionally, where the cloud was thin, the moon 
shone through. 

It was long after midnight when Sister Gladys 
dropped off to sleep. Ordinarily she could not sleep 
sitting, but tired nature takes repose as it can. While 
she slept she dreamed. A host of angels seemed to 
be ascending and descending the heavens. With 
them was one that seemed to hover especially near 
her. 

The driver had noticed a strange light in the dis- 


174 


THE preacher’s SON. 


tance. It seemed to be drifting over the marsh 
which lay to their right. Suddenly it came toward 
them and frightened the horses till they gave the 
wagon a jerk and woke Enoch and his mother. A 
large white light about four feet in diameter was 
traveling just above their heads. Having suddenly 
awakened out of sleep, and from such a vivid dream, 
Sister Gladys was struck with awe. Enoch and the 
driver were terrified. 

It was learned afterward that such lights were of 
ordinary occurrence along that river swamp. But 
that one, appearing just when it did, made a strong 
impression on the minds of those who saw it, espe- 
cially on Sister Gladys. 

She learned two days after she reached home that 
her father had died that night just at the hour when 
she had dreamed and when the light had appeared. 
The note said: “ Father passed away quietly last night 
at three o’clock.” Those who knew how the man had 
lived could easily describe his death. It was a Chris- 
tian death. The mysteries of his weary life grew clear 
when the virtues of his death were apparent. Such a 
sweet death! His soul, fresh and bright, quit a tired 
body and gently blew away on the breath of some 
wild spring flowers. 

They were met some distance from the house by a 
neighbor, who told them to go very quietly, as Statia 
was too ill to stand much excitement. The mother 
was not much surprised. She had expected as much. 
Brother Gladys met them at the gate. It was just 
daybreak. He said Statia had been sleeping two 
hours. Enoch was told to go in and lie down. He 
crept quietly to the door of the room where his sister 


TWO ANGELS. 


175 


lay. He looked at her flushed cheek and quickly 
guessed the trouble: her hemorrhage had returned. 
Sister Gladys was told how, a few hours after she had 
left, her child was taken sick, and how she had grown 
first better then worse, and how she had asked that 
mother be sent for. 

AYhen Statia awoke, she kissed her mother and said 
faintly: “Dear mamma didn’t come too soon.” Next 
day she was decidedly better, and her faithful physi- 
cian said that he believed there was a chance for her 
recovery. Soon, however, she grew weaker, and hope 
for her recovery seemed failing. When Enoch heard 
them say, “ The poor child cannot get well,” a 
strange feeling crept coldly over him. The first op- 
portunity he had he lay down on the bed by his sis- 
ter and begged her to forgive him for all the cross 
words he had ever spoken. She kissed him and 
smiled forgiveness. 

On Saturday night after supper Statia seemed 
more cheerful than for some time. She had Enoch to 
play a tune on his harp, and then she had her father 
play one of her favorite pieces on his flute. When 
he had ended, she said, “ That was so sweet and low,” 
and then turned and sank into a deep sleep. About 
an hour afterward she was noticed moving, and her 
father recognized a gurgling in her throat. He 
quickly raised her up, and told Enoch to hurry for 
the doctor. Enoch sprang out of the door with tlie 
word, and ran with all his might. It was some little 
distance, and he somehow felt that possibly that very 
hour would waft his sister’s spirit to a brighter home. 
He was right in his supposition. A few minutes la- 
ter, as he returned with the doctor, he heard his 


176 THE preacher’s son. 

heartbroken father cry out: “Too late, doctor, too 
late!” 

The child, once so robust and blooming, had be- 
come fragile, and her panting spirit had sought its 
freedom. 

She was a child, a girl just approaching woman- 
hood. She had known no hatred, no hypocrisy, no 
suspicion; the past had never troubled her, and she 
had never had a care for the future. Even childish 
sorrow was almost a stranger to her bosom. Her 
death was sublime and beautiful. She fell asleep as 
the morning dew of life was being exhaled. 

The father said he had put his arms around her 
helpless, almost lifeless form, and the mother had 
pressed her hand. They said it seemed to help the 
sweet child to pass through the deep water. Many a 
child has been comforted by a father’s kiss or a 
mother’s soothing hand when the swift river has 
reached the great ocean. 

The hearts of that family were smitten and were 
drooping like willows. And the world did not seem 
to contain so much after that loss. 

Enoch ever remembered the angelic smile which 
death preserved upon those features, and never on 
living face was he able to find such sacred sweetness. 
A grave was made in the village churchyard, and the 
absence of the form of its inmate from the home of 
Brother Gladys wrought a great change in the life of 
Enoch. He continued to clerk up town, and his 
path led him by the graveyard. At morning and at 
night, on his way to and from the store, he stopped 
by the fence at the foot of his sister’s grave, and 
asked God to help him live aright. 


TWO ANGELS. 


\n 

Full many a man has stopped beside some grave to 
pray, and it may be that God permits some graves to 
exist that he may turn and keep men’s hearts to 
prayer. 

When Enoch felt tempted to do wrong, he seemed 
to hear his two angels saying: “Meet me there.” 

12 


CHAPTEE XXXII. 

HOW SHALL I SPEND SO MUCH MONEY? 

FEW weeks after Statia’s death, Enoch’s place 



in the store was filled by a young man just 
from college, a brother of the proprietor. 

When they came to settle, it was found that Enoch 
had held his position twelve months. At the end of 
the first six, he came out a well-dressed tobacco 
worm, twelve dollars in debt. At the end of the sec- 
ond six, he had quit tobacco, and was still well 
dressed, but had sixty-five dollars to his credit. Six- 
ty-five dollars! AYhat a vast sum of money in the 
possession of even an eighteen-year-old boy who liad 
never owned over thirteen dollars at a time before! 

Enoch received his money in six ten-dollar bills 
and one five. At the store on the corner he 
changed the six tens for twelve fives. At the drug 
store he changed two of the greenback fives for two 
fives in gold. At the x^ost office he changed three 
fives for fifteen silver dollars. At the market he 
changed three silver dollars for sixty nickels. Then 
with money in every pocket to rattle, he walked about 
the village and priced every commodity on which 
his eyes chanced to fall. He priced a dozen pocket- 
books, costing from ten cents to two dollars, but final- 
ly decided he would not buy one. He then priced 
hats, shoes, clothing, trunks, knives, books, station- 
ery, etc., but at last determined that he would not 
break his sixty-five dollars. He reasoned thus: “ If I 


( 178 ) 


HOW SHALL I SPEND SO MUCH MONEY? 179 

buy a lot of little things, I will soon spend all my 
money and have nothing of great value to show for 
it. I wilt go to the livery stable and price a horse.” 

He was surprised to find the cheapest horse offered 
him was for ninety dollars. All at once he took a no- 
tion he would go home without spending a cent He 
proceeded as far as the church; there he took a seat 
on the step, put all his money in his hat, and count- 
ed it. He found that he had sixty-five dollars and 
twenty cents. He had twenty cents when he was 
paid off. 

He decided that as he had twenty cents over and 
above the sixty-five dollars, he would return to town 
and spend the twenty cents. He would spend it for 
something all the family could enjoy. He really felt 
it his duty to do something in a financial way for his 
father, as he had cared for him so long. According- 
ly, he purchased a pound of cheese and went home 
feeling that he was a great benefactor. Just before 
he reached home he stopped and priced a choice res- 
idence lot. The price was three hundred dollars. 
He did not buy. 

On arriving at home he gave the money to his 
parents to keep for him, all but five dollars which he 
kept to jingle in his pocket. He gave his mother and 
father thirty dollars each, and charged them not to 
be careless with it or lose it. That night after sup- 
per Enoch asked his father how much money he ever 
had at one time. His parents were very much 
amused at his restlessness about his money. During 
the week following he consulted all his friends, 
young and old, as to the best use to which a young 
man could put his first money. Some advised him 


180 


THE preacher’s SON. 


to save it and earn more to put with it. Others told 
him to make the first payment on some piece of 
property, and then to go to work and meet the pay- 
ments as they came due, so that by the time he 
reached twenty-one years of age he would own some- 
thing. One old friend told him to loan it out at in- 
terest, and that at the end of a year he would have 
seventy dollars instead of sixty-five. Enoch thought 
that it would be worth twenty dollars to do without 
his money so long. 

Before very long he decided to spend it as his par- 
ents had advised him: in going to school. His 
father promised to supplement it. He at once made 
his arrangements to spend the spring term of four 
and a half months in a leading university in Southern 
Alabama. There tuition is free to preachers’ sons, 
and board at the boys’ dormitory was seven dollars 
and a half per month. He went there and entered 
school. 

I think the parents gave good advice, and that the 
boy could not have put his money to a better use. 

When it became known in the village that Enoch 
was going off to college, all the mothers said to their 
sons: “Now see how Enoch is going to use his 
money. That’s the way you must do.” 

Young ladies who had hitherto considered them- 
selves above the attention of an ordinary preacher’s 
son began to smile at Enoch as he tipped his hat to 
them on the street. His sweetheart suddenly became 
more tender toward him, and declared to one of her 
girl friends that he would be such a fine fellow 
when he finished college. 

One skeptical young lawyer remarked: “It is a 


HOW SHALL I SPEND SO MUCH MONEY? 181 


great pity to see so fine a boy go off to a Church 
school, and maybe come home a preacher, when he 
could have equal advantages elsewhere and make a 
brilliant professional man.” 

Finally the day came for his going. He was mer- 
ry till the very minute when he told his mother good- 
bye, and then he only shed a small tear. Young 
hearts are light. 

Sister Gladys was glad that her boy could go off 
to school, but was anxious and uneasy about him. 
She was afraid that he might get into bad company 
and come home with more text-book knowledge, but 
less integrity. 

The time for leaving home for school is a critical 
period in the life of any boy, and parents cannot bo 
too careful in selecting the school. Boys on leaving 
home feel sorry for the family. They say: “I will 
be missed so much.” Beally, they are more missed 
than they have any idea, but after they have been 
away for three or four weeks they find that the home 
folks are missed too. 

Enoch arrived at the college boarding house just 
before breakfast. When he entered the dining room 
the boys all looked at him searchingly. Several 
leaned over to the one sitting next and whispered 
something. Some of them smiled, some looked at 
him sneeringly, others seriously. One wooden-head- 
ed chap sniggered out, and Enoch blushed as all 
eyes were turned upon him. 

The meal was not relished. After breakfast sev- 
eral young men introduced themselves to Enoch and 
offered their services if they were needed. One 
sijlendid young fellow (at this writing a prominent 


182 


THE rREACHER’s SON. 


member of the North Alabama Conference) went 
with him to the college building and introduced him 
to the kind old President and the friendly professors. 

The first day was spent in finding out lessons and 
classes, and in making acquaintances. That night 
some of the boys invited Enoch to go “ snipe hunt- 
ing” with them, but a friend had posted him be- 
fore leaving home, and he declined the invitation 
with thanks. 

Fortunately, Enoch ‘‘fell in” with the better class 
of boys, joined the Y. M. C. A., the weekly college 
prayer meeting, and the semiweekly boarding house 
prayer meeting. Some of the bad boys (there were 
very few of them in that school) turned the cold 
shoulder to Enoch because he joined the “preacher 
gang.” 

Enoch’s first term of college life was a great bless- 
ing to him. Boys in college can help newcomers 
very materially if they will. Many boys who enter 
college are green and inexperienced, and naturally 
feel dependent on those who have learned college 
ways. A boy who will impose on a newcomer must 
be either mean or unthoughtful. 

Enoch’s letters home were long and loving, and 
the tender letters from home were always anxiously 
looked for, and when they came were eagerly de- 
voured and often cried over. 

When Enoch opened his trunk, he found a new Bi- 
ble on top of his clothes. A note in the book said: 

Enoch, My Barling Boy : Read this and study it every day. 
Pray often, and remember that mother prays for her boy day 
and night. Be honest in your examinations, and do right in 
all things. Your Loving Mother. 


HOW SHALL I SPEND SO MUCH MONEY? 183 


God bless the good, thoughtful mothers, and the 
boys who are mindful of them! Many a boy has al- 
lowed the Bible that his mother placed in his trunk 
to lie untouched throughout the college year, unless 
it was some day when he was sick, or when he had 
received a letter stating that some member of the 
family was sick at home. Light affliction often 
works great glory. 

I ofPer a few suggestions to young men who are 
attending college or who expect to attend: 

1. Write home often. 

2. Keep an itemized statement of your expenses. 

3. When you feel your need of advice, dont hesi- 
tate to ask it. 

4. Don’t try to correspond with every girl you left 
in your home town. 

5. Don’t be in a hurry to find a chum. 

6. Identify yourself with the Church of your 
choice where you attend school. 

7. Don’t boast of your fine home. 

8. Be a gentleman. Treat new boys kindly. 

9. Be strictly honest in word and deed. 

10. Kemember that it is possible for a boy to grad- 
uate in vice long before he has received a degree in 
learning. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

COLLEGE LIFE. 

T the end of Enoch’s first term in college he 



returned home and taught a summer school of 
three months. This school paid him more than a 
hundred dollars, but he had no trouble in deciding 
what to do with the money. He had fully concluded 
to educate himself. During the summer, while he 
was teaching, he had the good fortune to receive a 
scholarship in a college in the leading educational 
city of the South. This scholarship was large 
enough to defray his expenses at school, and with 
the money he made teaching and bookselling during 
vacation he found it an easy matter to remain in 
school till he had finished. 

Enoch’s new experience in college was quite differ- 
ent from that in the small Alabama city. His new 
school was in a great city, and he had to begin college 
life anew. 

I cannot use the space in this chapter to better ad- 
vantage than in quoting letters Enoch received from 
his uncle — an uncle who loved the boy dearly and 
who wrote just such letters as every boy would like 
to receive. The first letter I will use w^as written be- 
fore Enoch left home, as its reading will show: 

My Bear Nephew Enoch: I learn that you are to be off in a 
few days for college, and I write to give you some advice upon 
this momentous step in your life. You are going to a great 
city. Advice is cheap, Enoch, but what I say springs up in my 


( 184 ) 


COLLEGE LIFE. 185 

heart spontaneously, and must be sincerely genuine if not valu- 
able. 

First, I am glad you have done yourself the honor to com- 
plete the studies of the high school, and to get along so well in 
the college you have attended since. Considering your oppor- 
tunities, you have done well, and I naturally reason that your 
career in the future will be correspondingly brilliant. But col- 
lege is a hard life, boy ! 

I shouldn’t go out in the city at night. There will be attrac- 
tions, I know; but as you value your time and your character, 
forego that dangerous illusion. Hundreds of boys have gone • 
from their parents and friends into cities, to attend college, and 
gone almost straight to the devil through this very practice. 

Now, I am not preaching to you, but I am giving you a warn- 
ing which, if heeded, will enter largely into your future success, 
and most especially into your moral character as a dominant 
safeguard. 

Dear Enoch, listen to me, don’t ever, under any circum- 
stance, suffer yourself pulled into taking a drink of liquor. 
Some bad boys will tempt you, allure you, perhaps sneer at 
you, but hold fast to your integrity and don’t let it go ! 

Keep good company. But I know you will do that without 
my asking it. I hereby mail you a book, a most excellent work, 
which you may carry along with you and read at your leisure. 
This reminds me — take your Bible along, and do not forget to 
read it every day. The Bible is a grander essay on man than 
Pope’s — the book I have sent you. 

Be economical in your expenditures. I shouldn’t pose as a 
mendicant, nor refuse to do the royal part in the comrade epi- 
sodes that may arise between you and your generous, good 
companions, but avoid wastefulness. If you ever get into a 
“tight” (don’t let your father see this), let me know and I will 
help you. Eemember, boy, I don’t mean a whisky “ tight.” 

In haste. 

Your uncle, J- Simpson. 

Of course Enoch was proud of this good, cordial 
letter from his dear uncle. He read it often and 
tried to follow its advice. He answered it immedi- 
ately, and received the following reply: 


186 


THE PEEACHEH’S SON. 


Dear Enoch: Your welcome letter of the twelfth is before me. 
I am glad that you passed your entrance examination so satis- 
factorily to yourself and the Faculty. Somehow I view your 
successive victories and promotions as my own, and feel almost 
the same elation that I should experience were I a Wellington 
and my field a Waterloo. Pardon this extravagance, but, boy, 
1 love you. 

Don’t visit the theater. You know I have dissipated largely 
on this line, and to-night I would not have you put aside your 
lessons to hear Joe Jefferson, my favorite. 

Be as regular in your attendance at church and Sunday 
school as you were at home. 

Guess what book I have just finished reading? “Uncle 
Tom’s Cabin.” I should have read it years ago, but I didn’t feel 
inclined to do so. Mrs. Stowe is pathetic, graphic, and imagi- 
native. The characterization of poor, ill-fated Tom, murdered 
by his brutal owner down upon the swamps of Bed River, is 
genuinely pathetic, and not so farfetched as some ultra South- 
erners claim. I have no objection to your reading the book if 
you have the time. It will soften your race prejudice with a 
power as subtle as the melting of a snowball before the fire. 

Who is this Frank Wynn of whom you speak? Is he a good 
boy? I somehow have a premonition that he will involve you 
somehow or some way. It may be all a whim ; but if he is akin 
to the old Judge Wynn I once knew, he is a sharper and will 
turn out bad. Perhaps he is not a relative and I do him an in- 
justice. You are old and sensible enough to be careful in your 
alliances, and I must trust to your good sense to interpret the 
volumes my heart prompts me to write. 

I went with some friends fox hunting on old Chocolocco 
Mountain the other night, and had a fine time of it. It was a 
red fox, and we never caught him till sunup next morning. 

Remember to call upon me for any favor in my power to 
grant, and always regard me as an undying friend and more. 

Your uncle, J. Simpson. 

Enoch’s years at college passed off quickly and 
Xdeasantly. His father and family moved twice while 
he was at school, hence when he returned home for 


COLLEGE LIFE. 


187 


vacation he found himself among strangers. The 
last letter he had from his uncle before graduation 
was in answer to a letter in which he had told about 
the young lady he met when he first went to college, 
and who had been his devoted, or to whom he had 
been the devoted, all the while. His uncle replied: 

Dear Enoch : I am glad your graduation in the Bachelor’s Course 
is near at hand. This has always been an honor much sought by 
men of letters. Wesley and Whitefield were men of high standing 
in theirchosen work ere they reached this distinction, but that 
was at Oxford in the days when honors were sparingly be- 
stowed, and won only by the most earnest and persistent work. 

May I choose your calling ? or have you and God settled it? 
I should think the profession of teaching would suit you, and I 
feel that should you enter the field of education for your life 
work you might become a factor in working out the reforms 
now being vigorously urged by the best thinkers of our time. 
Besides there would be laurels rich and valuable, plucked by 
you, that others have coveted in vain. You see, my boy, I 
have unbounded confidence in you. 

You spoke of marriage, or rather hinted in such terms 
(“Quis amorein fallere posit?” — Virgil) that I could not fail 
to reach forward and gather in my arms your full-fledged 
thought. 

I should not marry unless I found an angel — actually trans- 
parent wdth celestial whiteness and as unused to this world’s 
sins as a flake of snow, and possessing a large quantity of com- 
mon sense, a great fortune, a godly mother, a Democratic father, 
not too many back-number sweethearts, able to cook, parse 
Ovid, translate Sallust, walk ten miles a day, sing common 
meter songs (like “Amazing Grace ”), and curb a temper. The 
fact is, Enocl \ , I want you to be careful. Five years in the future 
would suit you as well as now, or better. Unless you have before 
you (and in your heart) a specimen of human perfection, and 
feel that your destiny for two or three worlds hangs upon her 
life, I’d postpone that event until a more convenient season. 

I always feared that young man Frank Wynn would not come 


188 


THE preacher’s SON. 


to any great good. His expulsion and consequent distress and 
dishonor, which is the same, were justly meted, if I hear the 
report correctly. Did your acquaintance with him ever ripen 
into friendship? You will remember that several years ago, 
when you first entered college, I warned you against him. It 
seems there is something in name or relationship. 

I shall try to have a programme of pastime arranged for your 
return, which will be in June. 

Inclosed find twenty dollars, which you may use as you like. 
Don’t ever mention it especially to me. I know boys get into 
these little straits. I’ve been a boy. Etc., etc. 

Your uncle, J. Simpson. 

The Commencement came. Enoch graduated by 
the side of his sweetheart, who took the same degree. 
He thought his uncle’s description of the kind of a 
woman to marry exactly suited his girl. He was per- 
fectly satisfied. 

Eev. Gladys went to see his son graduate, and pos- 
sibly with a view to getting acquainted with the 
“ sweet girl ” Enoch had spoken of in every letter for 
tw’o years. It was fortunate for Enoch that his fa- 
ther was there, for the young man had spent all his 
money, and on the day of graduation had to ask his 
father for money with which to pay his and his girl’s 
street car fare to the city and back. 

It happened, possibly accidentally, that Brother 
Gladys, Enoch, and his sweetheart took the same 
train. At Decatur Enoch and his father took a 
steamer, the “Wyeth City,” on the Tennessee Eiver; 
and the fleet L. and N. carried the love-sick boy’s 
treasure toward her home west of the Mississippi. 


CHAPTEE XXXIV. 

ASKING FOB THE GIRL. 

D UEING the first school Enoch taught he was 
licensed to preach, and made his first effort in 
his father’s church. 

His sweetheart said that all her life she had de- 
clared she would never marry a preacher or a teach- 
er. Enoch was a little of both, but on that rainy aft- 
ernoon in February as the two sat in the parlors of 
the Hermitage, whither they, with a party, had gone 
picnicking, when Enoch got up courage to “ pop the 
question,” his sweetheart forgot her old declaration 
and got up courage to answer “Yes,” and moreover 
to assure him that for his sake she would not dance 
any more. 

For a month after Enoch finished school he did 
little more than write letters. He was hunting for a 
school to teach the coming winter, and was corre- 
sponding with his girl, especially the latter, I pre- 
sume, for in one of her letters she said: “The mail 
boat did not come up this week till Wednesday, but 
it brought me your sweet letters of the 13th, 14th, 
15th, 16th, 17th, and 18th.” To that letter she added: 
“ P. S. — There was a big ball in town last night. 
Many thought it very strange that I did not attend, 
but you understand, don’t you, dear?” 

The poor boy was growing desperate. They had 
set the day to be married, and it was only three 
months off, and he had not asked for the girl or se- 

(189) 


190 


THE PEEACIIEll’S SON. 


cured a position. He had never fully made up his 
mind to enter the itinerancy, but he had obligated 
himself to teach two years, if the opportunity was 
offered. 

One night, after he had written a long, loving let- 
ter to his sweetheart, and an application to the Board 
of Trustees of a school in a neighboring town, he 
took up a blank envelope and wrote on it: 

To-morrow I’ll be twenty-one. God knows that my dear fa- 
ther and my darling mother have done all they could for me. 
If I ever make a man, I owe it to them. May God help me 
while I try to “ paddle my own canoe ! ” Enoch Gladys. 

He looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock, but 
he could not think of sleep. He said to himself 
aloud: “Here I am, a man of my own, engaged to a 
girl that I have not asked for, the day set, the girl 
six hundred miles from here, and I without a po- 
sition, and borrowing money from father to buy 
stamps. Something must be done! If I can’t get 
work, I can ask for the girl; so here goes. I will 
write her mother a letter.” 

Mrs. Alethea Everett. 

Dear Madam: I have been thinking for some time that I 
would write to you, to tell you that I have been thinking that I 
would ask you if you have any objection to my writing you to 
ask — 

He stopped, read it, and tore it up, and tried it 
again. Next time he said: 

Mrs. Alethea Everett. 

Dear Madam: No doubt your daughter has long since in- 
formed you that — 

He stopped again, tore his second effort to pieces, 
and remarked: “No, she hasn’t told her.” He sat 
and thought and scratched his head, then turned 


ASKING FOR THE GIRL. 


191 


through a book which taught letter writing, but he 
could find no model of a letter asking for a girl. Fi- 
nally he decided that he would write her a good, 
long, pathetic letter, just such as he imagined would 
please an old lady. He went at it determined to suc- 
ceed. “ The third time is a charm,” he said, and he 
wrote: 

Mrs. Alethea Everett. 

Dear Madam : If I should ever have the fortune to converse 
with you, and that act were to scare me as mncli as writing to 
you does, I fear that I would have to engage a spokesman. 
However, I will attempt to state the object of this letter. I 
trust that at some time during the vacation you were informed 
that your daughter Emily and I have a serious intention of 
some day becoming man and wife, and that this letter will not 
be as great a surprise as it otherwise would have been. 

Loving Miss Emily as I do, I know how her mother could 
not bear the idea of giving her daughter to another. Therefore 
I will put this sacred question in another form: Will you take 
me to be your son? I imagine that I can see you frown, and 
hear you say: “Well, I think the boy might have waited at 
least till my child spends a vacation at home.” But, Mrs. Ev- 
erett, I can’t wait; I have tried hard enough. 

Miss Emily has begged me to be patient, and wait till next 
summer to speak to you on this subject, but I am two years 
older than she, and observation has taught me that “a bird in 
the hand is worth two in the bush.” 

If nothing but wealth could win your daughter, I could not 
at present be successful. All that I have been able to offer her 
is a spotless name, which I thank God she, for her part, has 
agreed to accept. 

I desire no greater happiness than that of spending my life 
in making your daughter happy. Will you grant me the priv- 
ilege of trying? I fully appreciate your position; I know it 
will be painful for you to grant another the privilege of claim- 
ing your child. Furthermore, I know it will be unpleasant to 
refuse an honest suitor. 

Mrs. Everett, please do not refuse me simply because you 


192 


THE PREACHEK’S SON. 


are not personally acquainted with me. Please be as charitable 
as my own precious mother was when I spoke to her on the 
same subject. She said ; “ My boy, I believe you are able to 
select for yourself.” 

May our kind Heavenly Father guide you in your decision ! 
and if I am the fortunate one, I pray that I may be worthy of 
Miss Emily, whom I consider the noblest woman living except 
my mother. Do not be afraid that I do not love your child, for 
my faith in Christ is the only thing that is stronger than my 
love for her. 

I await your decision with very great anxiety. 

Praying that God may give you the inclination to answer 
me favorably, I am, with love and best wishes, 

Your most obedient servant, Enoch Gladys. 

He read the letter over, put it in the envelope, and 
went to bed. The last thing that he remembered 
thinking of that night was: “Surely that letter will 
bring the reply I want.” Eagerly he watched for a 
reply. He met every incoming mail. Three weeks 
passed. He grew despondent and pale. Finally in 
one of his sweetheart’s letters ho found this consoling 
sentence: 

Mamma says that she had a love letter from you the other day, 
knd that as she has never met you, she will leave the matter 
entirely with me. I am glad to tell you the same thing that I 
did that day at the Hermitage. We will agree on the same 
date set over two years ago — the 19th of September. 

In his great happiness he forgot his poverty, and 
pictured a brilliant wedding in the near future. On 
awaking next day he began more than ever to realize 
his poverty and his need of a position. He knew 
that his uncle would loan him money enough to de- 
fray his wedding expenses, but he wanted some work 
in view beforehand. He looked for work, he wrote 
for work, he actually prayed for work. In one letter 


ASKING FOR THE GIRL. 


193 


his betrothed ventured the question: “How are you 
going to make a living for us? ” 

He answered: “You love me; trust me.” 

On the evening of the 3d of July he received a let- 
ter from the President of the School Board in an ad- 
joining county, saying: 

You have been elected Principal of the Chestnut Grove 
High School for the coming year. Your assistant is Prof. Win- 
chester, a graduate of the State Normal at Florence. Your 
school is to open July 15, and continue ten months. Your sal- 
ary is seventy-five dollars a month, payable at the end of each 
month. 

By the same mail he received a copy of the Chest- 
nut Grove News, In the local column was this item: 

Prof. Enoch Gladys, son of Kev. Isaac Gladys, of Sand Hill, 
and a recent graduate of the leading professional teachers’ 
school of the South, was last night elected Principal of Chestnut 
Grove High School. This young man must have our coopera- 
tion if he succeeds in building our school to what it should be. 
If any of the parents desire to correspond with the Principal 
before the opening of school, they may address him “Prof, 
or Rev. Enoch Gladys, A.B., Sand Hill, Ala.” 

Enoch read the letter and then the paper. The 
letter was interesting, but the paper was doubly so. 
The paper contained a printed notice concerning 
him, and actually called him “ Professor! ” He showed 
the paper to his friends in town, and then carried it 
home and showed it to his parents and sisters. Then 
he encircled the notice with a big blue mark and sent 
the paper to his sweetheart. He soon received the 
best letter that he ever had from her. In it she said: 

Mamma says that y,ou must be a smart young man to get 
such a prominent position so soon after graduation. 

His happiness knew no bounds. All on earth he 
13 


194 


THE preacher’s SON. 


wanted was in view. He spent the ten days before 
his school opened in reviewing his studies and fish- 
ing. His father was his best companion on a fishing 
expedition. Many an afternoon they spent on the 
banks of a neighboring creek, enticing trout and 
perch from their crystal home. And as they fished 
Brother Gladys w^ould give his son such advice as 
every father should give a son who is contemplating 
marriage. 

Time flew. 


CHAPTEE XXXV. 


MARRIAGE. 

And there is not a heart on earth 
That loves, but shall be loved again. 

Some other heart hath kindred birth, 

And aches with all the same sweet pain. 

— Massey. 

O N the fourteenth day of July Prof. Enoch 
Gladys took passage from Sand Hill to Chest- 
nut Grove on the mail cart. He wore a black Prince 
Albert suit and a cashmere plug hat. His baggage 
consisted of a valise, a bundle of books, a box of 
crayon, and a hand school bell. At the end of his 
mountainous journey of thirty-five miles he was very 
tired, but a good night’s rest refreshed him and the 
next morning he made a fine impression on the pa- 
trons who brought their children to enter school. 
The school was full from the very beginning, and the 
only complaint that was heard in the village was: 

The young m an ain’t married.” More than once this 
objection reached Enoch’s ears, but he never allowed 
it to trouble him. The only thing that ever annoyed 
him was that he didn’t always remember exactly 
how to work some of the examples in algebra. Just 
a few days before the nineteenth of September the 
young professor announced that, as he had business 
in a distant State, he would give vacation a week. 
He had collected his monthly salary twice, and had 
saved enough to defray expenses on the trip. Some- 
how it got out before he left that he was going off to 
get married. On the morning of his departure an 

( 195 ) 


196 


THE preacher’s SON. 


old friend took off liis slipper and threw ic after him, 
assuring him that it would render his trip safe, profit- 
able, and pleasant. 

Two days from the time the young man left Chest- 
nut Grove he landed at Vicksburg, Miss., and found 
himself waiting for a boat to take him up the river. 
The boat was a day late, and the boy couldn’t wait. 
He took rail up the valley to Kolling Fork, and then 
took mule-back passage across the Mississippi Biver 
Bottoms. His traveling companion and guide, Un- 
cle Crockett,” had to tell him several times: “ Da ain’t 
no use a-spurrin’ de critter so much; we will git dar 
atter awhile.” 

Sure enough, toward the close of the day, they 
reached the great river, and Enoch was carried 
across in a boat by two negro men. They rowed 
him around the wrecked “ Natchez ” and between two 
sand bars, then away to a point of willows and the 
village where his sweetheart had her home. As he 
crossed the river he hummed broken strains of: 

Waiting for me, 

Waiting for me, 

My sweetheart is waiting for me. 

After stopping at the hotel and refreshing himself, 
he proceeded to a little cottage, half hidden by China 
trees, and there in a snug little parlor found his 
loved one actually waiting for him. 

On the following Thursday evening he led her to 
the altar of the village Methodist Church, and the 
pastor pronounced them “ man and wife.” 

The first boat down the river bore the happy 
young couple toward their home in the hilltops of 
North Alabama. 


CHAPTEK XXXVL 


THEEE LATEE EVENTS. 



>HE first night after they reached home Enoch 


- 8 - said: “Dear, we must start off right. Hand 
me the Bible, and let us erect a family altar.” His 
young wife cheerfully consented, and clasped her 
arms around his neck while he prayed the Lord to 
direct them through life. 


Three months later, as they were going to church 
one Sunday morning, Mrs. Gladys said to her hus- 
band: “Enoch, I want to join the Church to-day.” 
She was assured that she. could not please him bet- 
ter. He told her he had been praying for it ever 
since he had been loving her. 


A year later they decided to name their little boy, 
then a week old, for his grandfather, Isaac Gladys; 
to have his grandfather baptize him; and to do all in 
their power, by the help of God, to make the life of 
another preacher’s son pleasant and profitable. 


( 197 ) 


The End. 




























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